Ml 


I] 

1 


ii 


OF  CALIF.   LIBRAE,   LOS 


LOVE  IN    ~    •*" 
~  THE  WEAVING 


EDITH  HALL  ORTHWEIN 


70  /ow  &  ever  to  thirst,  'and  to  thirst  is 
ever  to  pray.  Thus  love  is  prayer,  and  they 
who  love  best  pray  best. 


BROADWAY    PUBLISHING    CO. 

Home  Office:  835  Broadway,  New  York 

BRANCHES:     CHICAGO.    NORFOLK.    BALTIMORE. 

ATLANTA.        WASHINGTON.        FLORENCE,    ALA. 

I9IO 


Copyright,  1910, 

Bv 
EDITH  HALL  ORTHWEIN. 


To 
MY  MOTHER, 

Mrs.  R.  G.  Rombauer,  whose  love  I  wear  upon  my 
heart, — a  jewel  of  so  rare  a  setting  that  it  holds 
the  coral  flame  of  morning  and  the  sun- 
woven    mist    of    evening   in    the    soft 
wonder  of  its  beauty. 


2137525    ' 


FOREWORD. 

The  lights  in  the  studio  burned  low.  Each  can- 
dle gave  forth  little  restless,  tired,  jerking  flickers, 
as  if  the  effort  of  brightening  the  long  shadowy 
room  had  wearied  it.  Is  it  not  always  a  struggle  to 
bring  the  light  into  the  gloom? 

There  were  pictures  everywhere.  But  one,  only, 
seemed  to  fill  the  place  with  its  presence.  It  hung 
in  the  very  end  of  the  room,  far  away  from  the  win- 
dows, in  a  niche  made  by  a  deep  recess  in  the  wall. 
It  was  a  picture  of  a  woman  reclining  upon  a  wide, 
fur-covered  couch.  The  beauty  of  her  bared  bosom 
was  half  exposed  as  she  lay  with  her  arm  beneath 
her  head.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with  the  great 
mother-love  of  her  being,  a  new  rapture,  partially 
veiled  in  a  cloudy  haze,  the  wonder  of  the  artist's 
brush,  seemed  to  float  beneath  her  vision.  At  the 
foot  of  the  couch  knelt  the  figure  of  a  man,  and 
upon  his  face  the  light  of  a  great  love  was  aglow. 
It  was  a  wonderful  picture — all  of  life  shaded  upon 
a  canvas  not  four  feet  square.  It  was  love,  face  to 
face  with  the  joy  of  its  passion.  You  could  almost 
see  the  hearts  a-quiver,  and  feel  the  great  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  love-tide  that  had  swept  them  into  one. 

Beneath  the  picture  sat  a  woman  with  great  hun- 
gry eyes.  All  of  her  young  life  had  been  passed 
in  an  environment  that  would  have  warped  the 

3 


4  jFotetootd 

womanhood,  in  a  soul  less  pure.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  picture.  Was  it  not  herself  por- 
trayed there — and  yet  could  that  be  she — that  won- 
derful creature  with  the  love-haze  about  her  ?  Surely 
love  was  all.  Over  her  neck  stole  soft  kisses — they 
burned  into  her  soul.  Suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
of  love's  embrace  the  meaning  of  life  seemed  to 
glow  over  and  around  her  and  she  bowed  her  head 
and  wept. 

It  was  a  great  step  to  take.  It  would  carry  her 
out  upon  the  ocean  of  the  world's  contempt.  What 
was  the  world  to  her — an  artist's  model?  It  threw 
her  crumbs,  to  be  sure — but  ah,  she  was  starving 
for  the  whole  of  love's  loaf.  God  help  a  woman 
when  she  loves! 

A  great  tender,  pitying  influence  hovered  over 
her,  there  alone  in  the  darkness.  The  candles  had 
gone  out  and  the  place  seemed  held  in  the  iron 
hands  of  an  awful  stillness  that  fain  would  choke 
out  her  very  life. 

She  loved — how  she  loved  him !  Was  that  right  ? 
What  was  wrong?  How  could  she  tell,  when  she 
loved  him  so? 

She  could  never  be  his  wife.  The  words  sung 
in  her  ears — "his  wife."  How  the  world  honored 
the  title!  A  quivering  denial  spoke  within  her 
breast.  The  world — it  was  the  world  again  she 
was  thinking  about  How  dared  it  stand  in  judg- 
ment of  her  love? 

His  wife — to  stand  abreast  with  him  and  face  life 
— to  smile  in  the  rocking  gale — to  feel  the  blood  of 
pride  rush  through  the  veins — surely  this  was  best. 
But  to  gain  this,  she  must  hurt  another,  perhaps. 


jforetoorD  5 

She  might  hurt  herself,  but  another?  And  this  is 
all  the  law  of  conscience.  Did  she  hurt  another? 
The  man  loved  her — she  knew  it.  Had  he  not  been 
strong  when  she  was  weak?  Had  he  not  been  true 
to  that  unloved  wife — silent  that  she  might  not  be 
hurt? 

Down  upon  the  floor  the  unhappy  woman  hud- 
dled; the  spirit  seemed  crushed  within  her.  Sud- 
denly she  stood  erect,  and  through  the  room  crept 
the  moonlight,  and  her  face  was  as  the  face  of  an 
angel.  Strength  and  love, — understanding,  was 
ablaze  in  her  eyes.  She  had  made  her  choice. 
Would  he,  her  lover,  let  her  abide  by  it? 

Her  breasts  quivered — as  if  a  child's  lips  were 
wet  upon  them — and  the  world  would  call  that  child 
a  bastard.  But  would  it  not  be  endowed  from  the 
store-house  of  love's  richest  treasure?  Was  not 
such  a  heritage  enough  ?  The  undesired  child  only, 
is  a  bastard,  though  he  sleep  in  a  satin-lined  cradle 
of  wedlock.  Her  babe  would  be  the  babe  of  love. 
Ah,  God,  would  her  lover  let  her  live?  And  she 
wept  again  and  waited  there  in  the  moon-glow — 
and  unseen  hands  bathed  her  brow  from  the  great 
alabaster  box  of  pity. 

Is  it  not  a  struggle  of  the  soul  in  the  body,  in 
life  to  find  the  way? 

Yet  when  the  fatigue  of  the  journey  is  over  and 
we  look  back  from  the  golden  summit  and  see  the 
beginning  froni  the  end,  will  not  bitterness  of  judg- 
ment pass  from  us?  For  we  shall  see  the  pattern 
of  the  weaving.  Will  it  matter  what  road  we  trav- 
eled, and  must  not  each  soul  draw  its  own  pattern, 
after  all? 


6 jForetoord 

There  are  some  plants  that  mature  beneath  the 
surface  of  the  earth  and  attain  perfection  hidden 
away  by  themselves;  and  the  most  beautiful  flower 
of  the  Alps — does  it  not  bloom  high  among  the 
rocks,  far  from  human  life?  May  not  souls  among 
the  rocks  of  worldly  criticism  blossom  also? 

There  was  one  who  read  the  story  of  his  life — 
all  his  thoughts,  his  words,  the  things  he  had  done 
and  left  undone.  And  as  he  -read  he  knew  what 
was  good  and  what  was  ill;  everything  was  clear; 
at  last  he  knew  himself.  And  while  he  pondered, 
one  stood  beside  him,  grave  and  calm  and  sweet. 
Up  into  the  face  which  turned  toward  him  touched 
with  the  light  of  immortal  joy,  he  looked  and  asked : 

"When  shall  I  be  judged?" 

And  the  answer  came,  "Thou  hast  judged  thy- 
self!" 


Love  in  the  Weaving 


CHAPTER  I. 

I  do  not  know  the  moment  that  I  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  I  was  alive.  The  seed  of  my  soul  had 
been  nurtured  upon  life's  sunny  slope,  albeit  the 
shadows  hung  over,  they  but  wrapped  the  too  fierce 
glare  of  my  happy  youth  in  a  fragrant  coolness,  that 
promised  well  for  my  future.  Some  lives  gradually 
unfold  as  a  flower,  others  in  a  night.  I  spread  my 
wings  under  the  soft  tender  influence  of  a  mother's 
voice,  made  music  by  sorrow's  touch  upon  the  harp- 
strings  of  her  soul. 

She  had  bound  her  bruise  in  ivy  leaves,  hoping 
from  her  loving  thought  of  me  that  I  would  never 
know  the  cruel  hurt  of  her  sadness,  but  children 
learn  and  ruthlessly,  in  their  innocence,  unbind  half 
healed  wounds.  My  mother's  sorrow  was  of  such 
a  nature  that  it  only  set  her  soul  to  singing  and 
her  eyes  to  feasting  upon  the  beautiful;  so  surely 
are  some  heart  aches,  only  the  opening  minor  chords 
to  a  symphony  of  passionate,  poetic  song  radiance. 

Under  her  sweet  charm  I  lived  and  she,  my 
mother,  set  the  notes  of  my  life  in  tune,  that  I 
should  sing  some  day  even  as  she.  I  was  ever  a 
dreaming  child  sitting  as  children  will  under  a 

7 


8 Lotte 

dream-tree  of  sugar-plums  reaching  out  chubby 
arms  to  grasp  the  frail  delight  of  "sense  and  touch." 
It  never  occurred  to  me  to  grow  weary  of  reach- 
ing; the  weariness  of  life  comes  later  and  not  with 
sturdy  child-feet.  All  of  my  young  life  was  spent 
under  the  dear  guidance  of  the  mother-hand,  and 
such  a  gentle  hand. 

We  lived  in  a  small  town  favored  by  nature  with 
a  setting  of  forest,  far  from  the  strife  and  noise 
of  cities.  Surely  in  the  quiet  stillness,  repose  of 
mind  is  found  and  there  my  mother  sought  her 
work  and  did  sewing  for  the  village  folk.  I  have 
seen  her  fingers  tremble,  as  she  stretched  them  out, 
after  too  much  pushing  in  and  out  of  stitches  and 
then  she  would  fondle  back  my  hair  and  say,  the 
tired  ache  of  joints  had  passed  away  from  mingling 
with  my  curls. 

The  song  birds  were  a  flutter  in  the  garden  about 
our  little  cottage  home,  the  green  trees  and  bushes 
waxed  bold  in  their  nodding  as  if  with  their  slender 
leaf-fingers  they  would  accompany  the  birds  in  their 
song  service.  'Twas  the  budding  month  of  April, 
and  the  earth  was  full  of  sweet  promises  for  May 
— her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  enthusiasm  over- 
eager  to  cast  her  sweet  blossoms  adrift  through  lane 
and  meadow. 

A  part  of  this  beautiful  leaf-growing  day  my 
mother  sat  by  the  latticed  window  of  the  cottage. 
Not  a  part  of  that  April  day  because  of  future  hope 
reflected  in  the  deep  of  her  eyes,  but  because  she 
seemed  to  have  caught  an  eternal  spring  in  their 
depths,  and  the  soft  fragrance  of  promising  bud  and 
flower  was  as  a  memory  ever  abloom  upon  her  face. 


C&e 


The  gold  of  her  hair  danced  in  the  sunlight  and 
all  was  harmony  and  peace  in  our  home  nest,  so 
sheltered  beneath  leafy  foliage,  whose  richness  lay 
heavy  upon  the  slanting  roof.  A  myriad  of  vines 
trailed  tender  blossoms  liberally  over  weather-worn 
boards,  till  tiny  windows  were  framed  in  a  mingling 
of  colors. 

"Mother,  Professor  Camden  is  at  the  door.  May 
he  come  in?"  She  dropped  her  work  and  rose  to 
give  welcome. 

"Don't  rise,  madam;  my  call  seems  forced  now  I 
stand  before  you,  but  as  I  was  passing,  a  voice  in 
the  garden  held  me  captive.  I  am  a  worn-out  singer, 
madam,  brought  to  your  village  by  the  kind  insis- 
tency of  friends.  I  am  like  the  tree  by  your  gate 
post.  I  see  you  have  cut  the  branches  to  save  the 
root,  and  so  I  must  cut  the  branches  of  my  ambi- 
tion to  let  the  blood  go  back  and  give  vigor  to  the 
life-root  of  my  being.  Your  village  is  full  of  the 
youth-tonic,  and  I  hope  for  much,  but  the  days  grow 
long  to  me.  I  am  restless  as  this  April  morning, 
so  eager  to  cover  the  earth  with  leaf  and  blossom." 

I  took  his  hat  in  response  to  the  request  for  hos- 
pitality in  my  mother's  eyes  and  then  left  them 
alone  and  once  more  became  a  part  of  the  great 
song-chorus  astir  in  our  garden.  It  was  near  noon 
when  my  mother's  caller  left,  and  he  took  with  him 
her  promise  to  send  me  to  him,  that  he  might  train 
my  voice.  That  I  had  a  voice  I  never  knew  until 
that  never  to  be  forgotten  April  morning.  I 
thought  it  natural  to  sing.  I  had  always  consid- 
ered myself  as  one  of  the  bird-chorus  that  flocked 
through  the  woods  and  had  aped  their  notes  and 


10 Lotte  3tn 

trills  until  sometimes  I  had  led  my  shy  friends 
astray. 

I  could  see  a  big  wonderful  gladness  in  my 
mother's  eyes  as  she  repeated  the  conversation  of 
Professor  Camden.  'Twas  as  if  she  hoped  through 
me  to  sing  her  gladness  to  the  world.  Poor  mother, 
so  shut  away  in  the  walls  of  memory  and  yet  so 
happy  there  and  so  willing  to  open  the  door  of  her 
heart  to  let  me,  it's  one  wee  bairn  go  forth.  When 
we  come  to  a  turn  in  the  road  of  our  life  I  have 
noticed  we  generally  stop  for  retrospection,  and  as 
we  prepared  our  simple  meal  that  far-away  April 
day  my  tongue  was  busy.  I  was  to  be  a  singer 
perhaps,  and  the  father  I  loved  was  not  there  to 
share  my  joy. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  picture,  mother,"  I  whispered 
as  we  finished  putting  the  dainty  tea  set  upon  the 
table.  Dishes  were  our  only  luxury,  and  the  plain- 
ness of  our  meals  was  forgotten  as  we  fingered 
delicately  vine-traced  cups  and  saucers. 

I  could  see  her  thought  was  mine,  and,  taking  me 
by  the  hand,  we  went  to  the  shrine  of  our  love.  It 
was  a  small  print  in  a  tiny  frame  and  kept  in  the 
drawer  of  her  desk,  where  she  would  sit  whenever 
leisure  could  be  indulged  in.  How  earnestly  and 
shyly  she  had  made  me  love  that  strong  true  face, 
with  its  dark  eyes  and  hair  worn  well  off  the  fore- 
head. I  knew  every  feature  by  heart,  the  tired  lines 
about  the  eyes,  the  serious  droop  to  the  mouth,  the 
whiteness  of  the  forehead,  and  the  furrows  of 
character  marked  there. 

My  father !  and  in  my  heart  I  knew  he  was  noble 
and  true.  He  was  not  dead,  she  had  told  me  that, 


Cfre  ffileatifng 11 

but  nearer  to  her  sorrow  I  could  not  creep.  My  lips 
were  dumb:  I  could  only  stand  before  our  love 
shrine  in  awe,  but  silent. 

"Am  I  like  him,  mother?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  dearie.  Thank  God  for  that,  else  I  could 
not  live.  I  see  him  in  you.  I  kiss  him  in  you,  child, 
— my  life  burns  to  him  in  you.  You,  my  Elsa,  are 
my  one  fair  love — blossom,  and  he  gave  you  to  me, 
to  make  all  the  rest  of  my  life  a  prayer.  Oh,  child! 
never  love  or  else  let  me  guide  your  love  to  hap- 
pier fruition." 

"Did  he  sing,  mother?"  I  said. 

"No,  child,  but  he  loved  and  so  sang  the  sweetest 
song  ever  sung  in  life." 

"Did  he  love  you  so  well,  mother,  and  yet  he 
never  longs  to  clasp  me  to  his  breast?" 

A  great  blindness  of  tears  hid  her  eyes,  and, 
gently  but  reluctantly,  I  pulled  her  back  from  the 
desk  and  closed  the  lid.  What  was  my  girl  curiosity 
compared  to  this  grief  in  her  eyes? 

Our  cottage  was  hemmed  in  by  forest  trees,  we 
could  hear  their  sighing  as  we  sat  mute  and  thought- 
ful over  our  tea.  Gradually  sadness  left  us  as  the 
moan  of  swaying  branches  ceased  and  twilight  deep- 
ened. 

Professor  Camden  had  come  to  the  village  two 
weeks  before,  and  the  place  was  a-gossip  about  him. 
He  was  a  man  past  sixty,  and  showed  a  fretful  un- 
willingness to  acknowledge  even  those  sixty  years, 
so  eager  was  he  in  his  chosen  vocation.  That  he 
was  a  great  teacher  from  New  York  we  never 
doubted.  The  way  he  had  helped  the  church  choir 
and  the  ready  understanding  of  notes  and  phrases 


12 Hottc  Sn 

impressed  us  so  favorably  that  even  in  so  short  a 
time  Professor  Camden  had  found  his  niche.  But 
he  was  a  sick  man  and  hid  himself  away  in  an  old 
brick  house  let  furnished.  One  servant  attended  to 
his  needs,  while  he  rested  and  waited  for  returning 
vigor  that  he  might  again  take  up  his  work, — and 
to-morrow  I  would  begin  voice  study  with  this  man 
so  soon  respected  and  loved  by  us  all. 


C&e  Sflieatring  13 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  was  up  early  the  following  morning, — the  pur- 
ple lilacs  that  had  found  their  way  even  to  the  case- 
ment of  my  bedroom  window  were  already  aflutter 
in  the  early  morning  breeze.  Our  cottage  was  very 
close  to  the  road,  just  a  hedge  of  green  in  the  front 
separated  us  from  the  village  walk,  but  on  either 
side  the  far  country  spread  out  invitingly.  I  re- 
member kneeling  by  the  window  ledge  in  my  white 
night  robe  with  both  elbows  spread  wide  upon  the 
sill,  as  I  drew  in  the  fragrance  of  the  nodding 
flowers.  Here  and  there  were  groups  of  'brown 
sparrows  chirping  merrily  and  the  blue,  blue  sky 
above. 

The  front  door  opened,  and  I  knew  my  mother 
was  astir.  She  was  a  small  woman,  with  a  bright 
alertness  about  her  that  gave  even  a  greater  charm 
to  her  fair  beauty.  How  I  loved  her,  my  mother. 
Her  eyes  searched  the  garden  beneath  my  window 
till  I  grew  fearful  of  a  hidden  foe,  so  seriously  was 
she  bending  over  the  flower  beds. 

"Betsy, — Betsy,"  floated  up  to  me — "Betsy,  where  \ 
are  you?"  and  then  I  knew  it  was  our  household 
pet  that  she  sought,  a  large  black  Tommy  that  we   J 
had  quite  insulted  by  naming  Betsy. 

It  would  seem  as  if  in  his  dignity  he  resented 
his  feminine  title,  for  he  never  came  when  called, 


14 Lotie  3n 

only  after  he  had  switched  his  tail  savagely,  then 
he  would  notice  us,  and  so  I  decided  that  the  name 
of  Betsy  was  not  to  his  liking — but  Betsy  he  re- 
mained nevertheless. 

"Betsy,  Betsy,"  my  mother  continued  to  call  until 
she  reached  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  then  she  turned  to 
perceive  Betsy  and  me  at  the  same  time.  "Why, 
Elsa,  child,  you'll  catch  cold  by  the  open  window;" 
but  sending  her  a  kiss  from  the  tips  of  my  fingers 
I  jested  her  fears  away  and  pointed  out  Betsy  peer- 
ing indignantly  at  her  from  the  west  walk.  "I've 
been  searching  half  an  hour,"  she  called  up  to  me 
as  she  caught  the  cat  in  her  arms.  "He  was  out 
all  night,  Elsa,  and  I  know  he  is  half  starved.  I'll 
just  take  him  in  to  his  milk." 

How  much  life  held  for  me  this  morning,  and 
how  eagerly  my  eyes  feasted  upon  everything. 
Each  bud  and  blossom  drew  my  enthusiasm,  and 
oh,  the  breath  of  the  outdoor  air  penetrated  my 
being  until  hands  grew  restless  and  feet  nervous 
to  be  up  and  doing,  and  eyes  eager  to  find  the 
visions  that  youth  and  hope  had  set  there.  I  was 
quite  overcome  at  what  the  day  should  bring  forth. 
I  was  a  village  lass,  and  so  there  was  an  innocent 
pride  stirring  in  my  heart  that  I  was  to  study  with 
the  New  York  Professor. 

"Beautiful,  sublime!"  I  raved  to  myself  as  I 
rose  from  the  casement  and  hurried  to  my  morning1 
toilet.  It  was  a  simple  one,  and  I  remember  the 
dress  that  I  put  on  even  now.  Pale  blue  lawn,  made 
with  narrow  tucks  at  the  bottom  and  off  the  shoul- 
ders at  the  neck  and  short  in  the  sleeve,  with  a 
ribbon  belt  at  the  waist.  The  birds  continued  to 


Cf)e 


chirp  outside,  but  I  had  forgotten  them  in  the  ad- 
justing of  ribbons  and  tying  of  shoes.  My  fingers 
flew  in  and  out.  I  curled  and  twisted  rebellious 
locks,  then  gave  a  pinch  to  my  cheeks  to  send  the 
colon  there,  for  I  was  a  pale  white  girl,  and  I  knew 
my  mother  liked  to  see  the  roses. 

I  found  the  tea  kettle  singing  on  the  stove,  and 
my  mother  busying  about  the  tiny  kitchen  when  I 
entered. 

"Isn't  it  a  wonderful  world,  mother  dear?"  I 
cried  out  as  I  cut  the  bread  into  thin  slices,  and 
then  put  it  on  a  fork  and  held  it  over  the  glowing 
coals  and  watched  the  delicate  brown  colorings 
gradually  spread  over  the  whiteness.  "Isn't  it  a 
wonderful  world?"  A  smile  of  sympathy  with  my 
youthful  enthusiasm  grew  on  her  face,  and  her  eyes 
lit  up  under  the  spell  of  mine.  Together  we  toasted 
and  buttered  the  bread,  and  Betsy,  now  well  fed, 
rubbed  against  our  dresses.  I  can  see  the  flushed 
eager  face  of  my  mother,  eager  even  as  mine,  and 
we  were,  eager  and  hopeful,  mother  and  I.  The 
little  cottage  was  a  fairy  bower,  and  she  was  a 
queen  sending  forth  her  fairy  princess  out  to  the 
edge  of  the  world,  to  catch  the  first  echo  of  its 
power.  How  good  the  coffee  tasted  and  the  few 
silver  pieces,  how  they  glistened  at  our  morning 
feast  as  we  chatted  on,  over  what  was  to  be.  Then 
came  the  tying  of  bonnet  strings,  the  quick,  yet 
lingering  good-bye,  and  the  last  glimpse  of  her  face 
as  I  hurried  over  the  hill.  I  knew  her  thoughts  back 
there  with  the  dishes  and  her  sewing,  and  I  hurried 
on  fast  and  faster  over  eager  to  reach  the  old  brick 
house  —  let  furnished. 


16 Lotie  3n 

He  was  there  on  the  steps  to  greet  me — Pro- 
fessor Camden.  The  long  gray  locks  about  his 
face,  his  tall  bent  figure  holding  on  to  the  railing. 
There  was  a  kindness  about  his  mouth  that  made 
me  feel  at  ease  with  him  at  once.  I  had  thought  to 
sing  by  the  piano  just  inside  the  window,  but  he 
led  me  into  the  garden  to  a  bench  overrun  with  stray 
vines.  I  had  thought  to  sing  immediately,  but  he 
only  talked  that  first  morning,  and  I  listened  as  to  a 
fairy  tale.  The  trees  7/ere  full  of  leaf,  and  a  heavy 
south  breeze  brought  sweet  odors  about  us. 

"Life  is  one  big  picture,  is  it  not,  Mademoiselle 
Elsa?"  he  said. 

"Oh!  isn't  it  wonderful,  Professor  Camden?" 
The  words  fell  from  my  lips  so  quickly  that  I 
flushed  at  my  temerity,  in  speaking  them. 

"Mother  and  I  were  marveling  at  it  only  an  hour 
ago,"  I  timidly  added.  "And  we  must  get  into 
the  picture,  you  and  I,"  he  continued,  not  noticing 
the  interruption. 

"Get  into  the  picture  and  feel  the  soft  crooning 
of  the  trees  and  respond  to  the  sunbeams  sending 
their  messages  of  light  through  the  sky.  It  is  only 
as  we  become  harmonious  in  the  picture  that  we 
hear  the  voices.  I  am  an  old  man,  older  even  than 
you  think,  and  the  voices  have  ever  led  me  into 
all  that  is  beautiful.  Listen  for  the  voices,  Made- 
moiselle, and  obey  them." 

"I  will — I  will "  I  cried,  scarce  knowing  what 

he  meant  but  led  on  by  the  rich  cadence  of  a  pecu- 
liarly low-pitched  voice.  It  was  a  short  talk.  All 
too  soon  was  it  over,  and  my  face  once  more  turned 


Cfre 


homeward  ere  I  knew  it,  but  it  was  an  hour  that 
has  lingered  with  me  through  life,  that  first  glimpse 
of  the  dear  Professor  at  the  old  house  —  let  fur- 
nished, with  its  neglected  garden  so  overgrown 
with  bud  and  blossom. 


is  Loue  3n 


CHAPTER  III. 

Step  by  step  ov.r  work  grew.  We  spent  hour 
after  hour  by  the  piano,  sometimes  both  silent,  in- 
tent upon  a  bird  trill  of  soft  notes  outside  the 
window,  and  then  I  would  shape  my  lips  and  trill 
as  the  bird  while  the  old  man  clapped  his  hands 
for  joy,  like  a  child.  "The  technical  part  is  tedi- 
ous," he  often  repeated  to  me,  "but  you  are  a  good 
pupil,  and  you  are  young  and  will  be  a  great  artist," 
he  muttered  softly  to  himself  many  times  as  the 
lessons  progressed. 

"I  will  be  an  artist!"  I  cried;  "you  shall  not  be 
mistaken  in  me.  You  shall  see!"  Then  we  would 
forget  the  practice,  while  he  told  of  the  big  city  to 
which  I  should  go  with  him,  of  his  studio  and  the 
yet  unexplored  world  of  song  I  was  to  enter. 

"After  long  study  you  will  bring  the  country 
lanes,  the  brown  sparrows  of  the  wood,  even  the 
sweet  odors  of  rose-petals  to  the  city  folk  in  your 
voice.  The  wonderful  gift,  child, — the  wonderful 
gift!"  and  in  this  mood  of  triumph  his  long,  slim 
fingers  drew  deep  chords  full  of  passion  and  appeal 
from  the  white  keys  of  the  piano.  At  their  bidding 
I  entered  the  realm  of  another  world.  All  the  con- 
flicting emotions  within  my  breast  became  one  in- 
tense harmonious  strain  of  melody  that  thrilled  my 
being.  My  heart  was  still,  for  fear  of  dispelling  the 
rapture  that  held  me,  such  power  lay  in  his  thin 
fingers. 


Cfre  E&eatring 


Sometimes  I  would  slip  home  quite  tired  out,  as 
if  I  could  bear  no  more,  but  I  was  happy  these  days, 
they  were  like  jewels,  and  I  held  them  to  my  heart, 
forgetting  all  but  the  radiant  beauty  of  my  gems. 
In  my  wildest  moments  when  I  dared  really  to  be- 
lieve in  my  genius,  I  Would  bow  my  soul  in  hu- 
mility —  for  as  I  grew,  an  humbleness  came,  that 
sometimes  was  as  despair  and  then  as  a  stepping 
stone  to  success.  The  days  passed  on,  the  Pro- 
fessor was  more  bent,  older  and  more  haggard,  but 
not  one  morning"  would  he  let  me  miss.  He  would 
straighten  up  like  a  soldier  on  my  approach  and 
murmur  that  he  had  a  trust  to  fulfill.  As  the  days 
waxed  warmer,  he  seemed  more  feeble  and  his 
hands  trembled  on  the  keys.  I  was  as  a  daughter 
to  him,  and  the  sweetness  of  a  definite  friendship 
grew  up  between  us.  "Little  Elsa,"  he  would  say 
very  tenderly,  "you  will  have  much  in  life.  God! 
—  you  will  have  much."  I  began  to  believe  his 
words,  and  my  tones  took  on  a  surer  sweetness  and 
greater  volume. 

There  was  a  hidden  excitement  these  days  be- 
tween my  mother  and  myself.  We  did  not  know 
what  the  excitement  meant  as  yet,  but  there  was 
brooding  over  us  a  mysterious  silence  that  led  us 
often  hand  in  hand  to  the  shrine  of  our  love,  and  a 
glad  light  was  growing  in  my  mother's  eyes.  Be- 
fore the  mystery  we  wrere  dumb,  as  if  a  holy  thing 
was  taking  root,  and  we  could  see  the  leaves  and 
tender  shoots  spring  into  being.  But  eyes  speak 
though  lips  are  dumb.  Tired  fingers  pressed  the 
needle  in  and  out,  weariness  fell  away  as  a  garment. 
and  joy  reigned  between  us. 


20  Lotoe  3n 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  fire  blazed  low  upon  the  hearth,  it  was  the 
early  fall,  and  there  was  a  crispness  abroad  that 
sent  me  eagerly  indoors  to  the  charmed  circle  of 
the  fire-light.  I  sat  alone  in  the  old  brick  house, 
let  furnished,  to  Professor  Camden.  It  was  a  bare 
uninviting  place,  and  the  furniture  was  stiff  and 
unfriendly  of  aspect.  During  the  summer  months 
the  garden  blossoms  had  pushed  even  into  the  win- 
dows of  the  dull  brick  of  the  house,  and  the  interior 
bareness  had  been  forgotten  because  the  green  life 
of  the  garden  had  beckoned  one  to  forget  all  else, 
but  that  the  sun  was  warm  and  loving  and  the  red 
geraniums  looked  so  proud  in  their  summer  dress. 
Day  after  day  I  had  opened  and  closed  the  garden 
gate  and  with  eager  feet  sought  the  piano  standing 
near  the  porch  window  which  was  left  open,  that 
I  might  enter. 

Sometimes  the  room  was  empty,  the  Professor 
was  perhaps  at  his  desk  in  the  bay  windowed  room 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall,  that  divided  the 
house.  When  he  was  not  there  with  his  eager  eyes 
ever  alert  to  begin  our  lesson,  my  fingers  would 
seek  the  keys,  even  as  his,  and  find  comradeship  by 
contact.  Sometimes  he  would  silently  enter  the 
room  and  surprise  me  in  these  flights  of  imagina- 
tion. He  seemed  to  find  pleasure  in  being  led  into 


Cfre  ffiiBeatting  21 


the  regions  of  melody  at  the  sweet  bidding  of  my 
fingers. 

The  emptiness  of  our  study  room  never  impressed 
me  —  for  the  glad  flower-world  was  outside  and  the 
piano  here.  Now  the  fall  had  come,  the  windows 
were  closed,  and  the  blossoms  dead,  —  yet  no  —  they 
were  even  here  in  the  great  log  upon  the  fire-place, 
and  so,  still  the  stiffness  of  black-haired  furniture 
was  unseen  in  the  voice  of  the  singing-log.  I  was 
so  absorbed  in  study  the  long  summer  days  that  I 
but  half  noticed  the  pinched  look  about  the  man 
who  worked  so  patiently  with  me  those  warm  sultry 
hours  when  the  sun  drew  closer  and  spent  of  its 
fire  upon  leaf  and  bud. 

I  had  grown  to  love  him,  too,  this  tall  spare  man 
with  the  deep  furrows  upon  his  brow,  the  ashy  pal- 
lor of  thin  lips,  and  the  tired  droop  of  shoulders. 
I  sat  alone  now  in  the  room,  while  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hall  the  dear  Professor  was  battling  with 
death.  Friendly  ghosts  of  days  past  crept  through 
the  shadows,  days  spent  in  song,  talks  in  the  garden 
—  I  could  hear  the  voice  of  the  man  so  in  harmony 
with  the  great  picture  of  life,  that  he  seemed  as  one 
with  nature,  the  tired  voice,  I  hear  it  now. 

"Mademoiselle  Elsa,  to  be  a  singer  you  must 
know  life,  in  all  its  saddening,  in  all  its  gladdening 
phases,  love,  disappointment,  sickness,  death,  all  are 
given  my  child  to  make  us  great  by  opening  the 
door  of  our  understanding.  Enter  Mademoiselle, 
and  the  thrill  of  inspiration  will  wind  itself  about 
your  being  until  it  will  rise  to  your  call  and  you 
will  answer,  'Here  am  I,  send  me  into  whatever 
realm  your  song  may  call  you.'  " 


22 


Ah,  the  hours  I  had  listened  to  this  man  of  music 

—  I  scarce  understood  that  it  was  the  gates  of  para- 
dise he  would  open  for  me,  that  he  even  bade  me 
enter  and  claim  my  birth-right.     Thus  the  friendly 
ghosts   of   those   summer  days  crept   in   and   out, 
through  the  shadows,  as  I  waited  by  the  fire,  —  alone 

—  waited  my  mother's  summons  to  that  other  room, 
where  the  voice  would  soon  be  but  a  memory  —  an 
echo  —  gone.     In  the  midst  of  my  reverie  the  door 
opened  and  my  mother  whispered,   "Elsa  —  sing  — 
sing!"     How  could  I  sing,  and  yet  I  must  for  the 
dear  master.     I  found  the  piano  stool  in  the  now 
deepening   shadows,   my  fingers  sought  the  white 
keyboard  lovingly,  and  I  struck  a  chord.     The  in- 
strument was  old  but  sweet  of  tone,  the  autumn 
night   and   the   dying   embers    guided   me   uncon- 
sciously, Tosti's  "Good-bye"  trembled  to  my  lips, 
softly  at  first,  and  then  my  whole  being  became  one 
with  the  spirit  of  the  song. 

.  "Falling  leaf,  and  fading  tree, 
i  Lines  of  white  in  a  sullen  sea, 
-.  Shadows  falling  on  you  and  me." 

The  wings  of  a  great  calm  brooded  lovingly  over 
me.  It  was  as  if  I  sang  to  a  departing  soul,  and 
when  "good-bye  summer,  good-bye"  fell  upon  the 
air  I  knew  I  had  come  into  my  own. 

I  cannot  remember  how  I  reached  the  chamber 
across  the  hall,  but  I  found  myself  there,  and  the 
Professor's  eyes,  alight  with  joy,  were  upon  me. 

"You  are  a  great  artist,  my  child,  —  you  will 
touch  hearts." 


Cfre  ffileatung 23 

He  spoke  no  more,  but  a  sweet  peace  spread  over 
his  countenance;  the  worn  body  was  at  rest.  Thus 
he  passed  from  my  life,  but  he  had  lived  long- 
enough  to  give  me  my  treasure.  We  sent  him  home 
to  waiting  friends  in  his  native  city,  loving  hands 
laid  him  away,  while  we  wept,  my  mother  and  I, 
and  the  leaves  sang  mournfully. 

At  last  the  emptiness  of  the  dingy  square  room 
was  felt  and  the  stiff  black  furniture  grew  promi- 
nent, yet  my  ringers  stroked  it  tenderly  as  I  hid  it 
away  beneath  gray  linen  covers.  Quietly,  order 
was  restored  to  everything,  the  windows  were  nailed 
up,  and  the  little  garden  gate  locked,  the  keys  of 
the  house,  let  furnished,  sent  back  to  the  attorney 
that  had  the  renting  in  charge.  I  had  grown  to  love 
the  place  and  with  the  ardor  of  youth  told  rny 
mother  I  would  buy  it  some  day,  when  my  voice 
brought  me  money.  Then  I  turned  my  face  home- 
ward for  the  last  time  and  pondered  as  I  walked 
under  village  elms,  over  the  dear  Professor,  the 
brick  house,  and  its  sad  short  love  story,  for  it 
had  one,  and  the  conflicting  emotions  of  death  and 
love  mingled  in  my  thought  as  I  hurried  along  under 
the  fast  falling  shadows  of  night. 


Lone  Jn 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  days  now  took  on  a  new  seriousness — I  was 
young,  I  believed  in  everything  good  and  beautiful 
— life  was  full  of  certainties  for  me.  My  mother's 
sorrow  had  fallen  upon  me  as  the  dew  of  heaven, 
turning  to  sympathy  the  seeds  of  doubt  and  fear  in 
my  heart — sympathy  for  the  ache  of  dumb  things 
and  a  love  for  the  growing  green  life  that  held  so 
important  a  place  in  our  little  world.  My  heritage 
was  joy — my  mother  had  willed  it  so,  and  youth 
cannot  penetrate  too  deeply  into  the  caverns  of  mis- 
ery, when  the  great  world  calls  so  str6ngly  for  the 
vigor  of  happiness. 

I  was  sitting  on  the  door-step  just  as  the  sun  was 
creeping  away  in  the  west  memorizing  the  wTords  of 
a  song,  one  day,  when  two  strange  men  came  down 
the  road  on  either  side  of  Mrs.  Aiken,  the  grand 
dame  of  the  village.  They  bent  toward  her,  like 
two  wooing  swains,  so  eager  were  their  gestures 
and  so  busily  did  their  tongues  seem  to  be  flying 
with  words  in  vivid  description  of  something,  an 
important  something,  too,  it  would  seem.  Their 
approach  sent  my  heart  into  my  mouth,  for  I  was 
unused  to  many  callers,  and  I  could  see  by  the  fre- 
quent glances  sent  my  way  that  their  steps  led  to 
our  cottage. 

Mrs.  Theodore  Aiken  was  the  mill  owner's  wife. 


Cfte  meaning  25 


She  was  a  tall,  well-built  woman  with  shiny  black 
hair  and  narrow,  well-defined  features,  which  gave 
a  stiff  primness  to  her  face,  her  eyes  moved  con- 
stantly as  if  always  seeking  and  never  rinding  peace 
—  the  peace  of  fulfillment  that  gives  ease  to  restless 
nerves.  She  was  president  of  the  ladies  sewing  cir- 
cle in  the  church,  she  sat  with  all  the  committees  of 
organization,  and  society  held  to  her  skirts  like  a 
child  under  the  protecting  wing  of  maternal  care. 

We  lived  outside  the  magic  circle,  and  so  there 
was  consternation  in  my  breast  when  this  stately 
lady  lifted  the  latch  of  the  gate  and  entered  our 
garden,  followed  by  two  strangers.  One  was  a 
middle-aged  man  with  iron  gray  hair,  and  a  fresh, 
ruddy  complexion,  a  contrast  that  attracted  me  at 
once,  the  other  was  thin  and  tall  and  pale  and  about 
thirty  years  of  age  with  great  serious  black  eyes, 
that  in  a  quiet  way  seemed  to  take  in  the  garden  and 
me,  in  one  sweeping  glance. 

"My  —  dear  —  child!  I  am  so  glad  you  are  at 
home  !"  and  Mrs.  Aiken  rushed  effusively  up  to  me 
and  grabbed  my  hands,  book  and  all.  It  was  draw- 
ing on  to  sundown,  the  deepening  shadows  were  as 
caressing  arms  about  me  and  stilled  the  wild  surg- 
ing of  emotions  within.  I  could  feel  the  blood  rush- 
ing to  my  cheeks  at  her  forced  friendliness.  When 
my  mother  came  to  the  door  and  turned  the  restless 
eyes  in  her  direction,  there  was  gratitude  from  every 
part  of  my  body. 

"My  dear  Mrs.—  Mrs.  -  ?" 
"Mrs.  Grier,"  sweetly  put  in  my  mother's  voice, 
and  the  quiet  tone  brought  courage  to  me,  my  em- 
barrassment fled,  I  drew  myself  to  my  full  height, 


26 Hotie  Hit 

greeted  them  all  and  led  the  way  proudly  into  our 
sitting  room,  where  lay  my  mother's  work  as  she 
had  dropped  it  on  the  window  ledge  at  the  sound  of 
their  voices. 

The  approaching  shadows  crept  over  the  ledge 
on  to  the  carpet,  a  dull  rich  luster  veiled  the  big 
flower  pattern  of  blue,  red,  and  brown.  Half  a 
dozen  books  lay  carelessly  upon  the  round  center 
table  of  mahogany,  a  valued  piece  of  furniture  we 
had  found  in  an  old  second-hand  shop.  The  little 
sash  curtains  swayed  in  the  breeze  and  the  few 
chairs  were  invitingly  grouped.  Our  visitors  sat 
down  and  I  could  see  the  falseness  of  their  approach 
fade  away,  as  the  love  atmosphere  within  pene- 
trated the  outer  crust  of  conventionality. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Grier,  this  is  Mr.  Alexander,  the 
business  manager  of  the  Shaw  Company  to  play  at 
the  opera  house  to-morrow  night,"  said  Mrs.  Aiken, 
waving  a  gloved  hand  toward  the  man  of  ruddy 
complexion,  "and  this  is  Charles  Grey,  the  leading 
man  of  the  Shaw  Company,"  and  the  restless  eyes 
turned  quickly  toward  the  younger  man. 

"My  daughter,  Elsa,"  said  my  mother,  acknowl- 
edging both  gentlemen. 

I  did  not  know  what  to  do,  but  bashfully  turned 
my  head,  a  sudden  awkwardness  seemed  to  possess 
me.  There  were  jarring  elements  at  work  in  the 
room,  and  I  could  feel  it  in  my  hands  and  feet, 
they  were  alive  with  bigness.  I  became  self-con- 
scious under  the  three  pairs  of  eyes  taking  me  in. 
I  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  then  in  my 
absorption  arranged  the  blinds  closer,  and  shut  the 
door.  Finally,  noticing  the  shadows  changing 


Cfte  fiHeattfng 27 

quickly  to  real  darkness,  I  eased  my  inward  excite- 
ment by  leaving  the  room  for  the  lamp.  When  I 
returned  its  glow  revealed  a  still  greater  nervous- 
ness astir  in  the  little  room.  The  two  gentlemen 
were  fingering  their  hats,  smoothing  the  band  and 
carressing  the  rim.  Mrs.  Aiken  was  sitting  bolt 
upright,  fully  conscious  of  her  exalted  position  of 
spokeswoman.  My  mother's  eyes  were  roaming 
from  one  to  the  other — a  mother  bird,  aflutter. 

"Elsa,  dear,"  she  cried,  even  before  I  could  reach 
the  table  with  the  lamp.  "They  want  you  to  sing 
to-morrow  night."  My  hand  trembled,  with  a  quick 
movement,  I  put  the  lamp  on  the  table  and  turned 
questioning  eyes  on  first  one  and  then  the  other 
of  our  callers.  Mrs.  Aiken  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Yes,  child,  Miss  Courtland  is  ill,  very  ill,  and 
they  have  sent  for  a  nurse  from  the  city ;  an  under- 
study will  take  her  part,  but  in  one  act  the  prin- 
cipal scene  is  at  the  piano  where  she  sings." 

"And  they  want  you,  dear,  to  carry  through  this 
scene,"  interrupted  my  mother,  holding  both  hands 
out  to  me. 

"And  the  opening  of  the  opera  house  will  be 
ruined,"  continued  Mrs.  Aiken,  "if  you  don't  help 
us." 

Sing!  I  was  only  a  child,  alone  in  the  great 
universe  of  song,  and  I  felt  the  weight  of  the 
loneliness  as  I  stood  in  their  midst. 

"You  have  a  good  presence,"  said  Mr.  Alexan- 
der, thinking,  no  doubt,  a  compliment  would  help 
me  to  gain  self-possession  and  confidence  in  my 
ability.  The  dark  eyes  of  Charles  Grey  seemed  to 
echo  his  words,  but  it  was  not  compliments  that  I 


28 Lotte  3n 

wanted,  it  was  a  voice  to  bid  me  into  the  world 
of  my  own,  and  it  echoed  to  me  from  the  silence, 
when  Mrs.  Aiken  spoke  up  impulsively,  at  a  loss 
how  to  help  the  situation,  by  saying : 

"I  know  you  studied  with  the  Professor  all 
summer." 

"But  can  I  do  it,  mother?"  I  asked,  ignoring-  the 
other  occupants  of  the  room. 

"Dearie,  you  know  what  the  Professor  would 
say  if  he  were  here 

"Sing,  Mademoiselle  Elsa,  'tis  the  first  call  for 
you  from  the  great  world-garden." 

I  knew  it  was  hard  for  the  words  to  come;  it 
was  as  if  the  Professor  urged  her  on,  to  the  try- 
ing of  wings  that  might  carry  me  away  she  knew 
not  where.  But  she  spoke  them  and  then  reached 
for  my  hand  as  if  to  warm  the  chill  about  her 
heart. 

"I  will  do  it,"  I  gasped  suddenly,  the  vision  of 
the  dear  Professor  before  me.  "I  will  sing." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  Miss  Grier?"  spoke  all 
three  voices  at  once. 

"We  rehearse  at  ten  in  the  morning.  We  shall 
expect  you,"  said  Mr.  Alexander,  lowering  the  ten- 
sion of  the  moment  to  a  business-like  basis,  and 
Mrs.  Aiken,  rising,  ushered  them  out  of  the  cot- 
tage into  the  deepening  twilight,  and  mother  and  I 
stood  tongue-tied  on  either  side  of  the  lamp,  grop- 
ing in  the  darkness  in  our  endeavor  to  understand 
the  methods  of  fate. 


CJje  GHeatnng  29 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Wednesday,  and  a  cloudy  day;  yet  the  sunshine 
of  a  joy  deep  in  my  heart  shines  over  everything-. 
Wednesday — and  the  dawn  of  what  for  me?  The 
awakening  perhaps  into  all  that  is  beautiful,  and  I 
am  alive  and  about  to  enter  the  great  arena  of  ex- 
istence. 

Wednesday — I  had  thought  it  would  never  come 
as  I  lay  restless  the  long  night  through,  thinking 
of  the  morrow — and  the  dear  Professor  seemed 
so  near,  and  at  last  the  quiet  entrance  of  the  new 
day  was  like  the  feeding  of  a  hunger  unfelt,  until 
the  first  tint  of  dawn  crept  over  the  hills. 

Ah,  the  relief,  the  joy  and  fear  that  thrilled 
through  my  being.  To-day  the  arms  of  the  great 
world  would  open  wide  to  receive  me,  and  the 
thought  filled  me  with  madness  for  the  joy  of  it 
all.  How  good  God  was  to  me,  a  little,  unknown 
country  girl,  and  down  into  my  pillow  I  buried  my 
face  while  the  tumult  within  my  heart  plunged  on- 
ward, deeper  through  my  being!  Would  the  world 
realize  all  the  happiness  she  was  holding  out  to 
me?  My  heart  leaped  within  me  and  a  prayer  lay 
on  my  lips  as  if  angel  fingers  touched  them  with 
the  sweet  oil  of  gratitude. 

Away  from  the  dreaming,  past  the  mountain  of 
fear,  on,  into  the  reality,  all  this  passed  through 


30 Cone   3n 

my  mind  as  I  hurried  through  the  village  streets, 
and  lo !  I  was  in  another  world,  breathing  the  subtle 
incense  of  a  darkened  theatre.  Before  me  was  a 
picture;  I  was  to  enter  that  picture,  and  my  pulses 
quivered,  my  eyes  sparkled.  The  first  two  acts  had 
been  hurried  over  just  to  give  me  the  atmosphere 
of  the  play,  and  now  the  setting  of  the  last  act  with 
its  two  scenes  was  called,  and  while  hurried  changes 
were  taking  place  Mr.  Alexander  left  my  side  in 
the  dim  foyer  and  the  stage  manager,  a  small  red- 
haired  man,  slight  and  wiry  of  build,  but  with  a 
keen  alertness  in  all  his  movements  and  with  many 
lines  marking  each  feature,  took  his  place.  Wilbur 
Knowles  was  clever  and  I  was  a  lucky  girl,  I  found 
out  later,  to  have  had  him  direct  my  first  rehearsal. 

"Very  interesting — Miss  Grier,"  he  said,  as  he 
stretched  out  in  the  seat  beside  me  with  an  abandon- 
ment of  legs  and  arms  that  told  me  it  was  real  re- 
laxation for  him  so  to  stretch  them.  "Your  first 
rehearsal  ?" 

"Yes,  and  my  first  sight  of  the  drama.  I  have 
read  many  dramas,  though,  and  am  thoroughly  at 
home  in  my  thought  of  the  scenes." 

"To  the  right,  Jim,  with  that  palm,"  he  called 
to  one  of  the  hands,  "still  farther  over,  boy,"  he 
yelled,  sitting  up  in  his  seat  and  waving  two  long, 
bony  arms  that  quivered  nervously  beneath  the  pink- 
and-white-striped  shirt  linen — "that's  good,  and  you, 
there,  to  the  left  with  the  table — shove  it  up  centre 
— that's  right.  There  is  always  something  to  work 
one  up  at  a  rehearsal,  Miss  Grier,"  he  said,  as  he 
slid  back  into  the  old  relaxed  position. 

"How  do  you  like  the  play,  and  what  do  you 


Cf)e  oaeatong  31 


think  of  the  understudy?  I  can't  get  over  how 
lucky  we  were  to  find  a  girl  that  could  easily  pass 
for  her  twin.  Gee  !  but  it's  lucky  !  Audience  never 
will  know  that  two  girls  do  the  same  part  and  the 
whole  ending  would  let  down  if  the  singing  were 
dropped  out  I  tell  you  I  am  glad,  that  head  in 
the  air,  Madam  Aiken,  thought  of  you  and  piloted 
the  old  gentleman  down  your  way. 

"Clever  little  girl,  your  twin  there,  but  she  can't 
help  us  out  except  this  week,  has  already  signed  up 
with  another  company  for  the  fifteenth  of  the 
month.  Don't  know  what  we  are  going  to  do  — 
Miss  Courtland  is  dreadfully  ill  —  a  poor  chance,  I 
am  afraid,  of  her  pulling  around  all  right  and  get- 
ting out  of  here  with  us  on  Monday." 

Thus  he  rattled  on,  half  by  design,  I  believe  now, 
as  I  look  back,  to  put  me  into  the  real  work-a-day 
atmosphere  of  the  theatrical  world,  and  then  left 
me,  jumped  over  the  orchestra  rail  onto  the  stage, 
now  fully  set  for  the  rehearsal  of  the  third  act. 

As  its  magic  surrounded  me  I  became  conscious 
of  the  scene  before  me.  It  was  a  large  room,  and 
in  the  centre  stood  a  handsomely  carved  table,  strewn 
with  books  and  papers,  over  which  was  suspended  a 
hanging  lamp  that  cast  a  dull,  mellow  light,  giving 
the  real  coziness  of  home.  There  were  three  French 
windows  in  the  setting,  heavily  curtained  with  a 
dark  red  silk  material,  which  was  drawn  back,  and 
outside  the  snow  was  falling.  Upon  the  hearth, 
great  oak  logs  blazed,  and  a  sense  of  cheer  per- 
vaded the  apartment,  though  a  quiet  lonesomeness 
seemed  present,  also.  Suddenly  one  of  the  cur- 
tained doors  was  flung  open  and  a  young  man  of 


32 Lotie   3n 

perhaps  twenty-five  years  entered  the  room.  He 
was  warmly  wrapped  in  a  long  heavy  ulster,  and 
wore  fur  gloves.  Silently  he  stood  with  his  back 
against  the  door,  his  hands  behind  him  holding  the 
knob,  his  hat  on,  while  his  eyes  wandered  about  the 
room  as  if  searching  for  something.  Finally  he 
muttered  in  a  low,  sad  tone : 

"Home — home  again!"  and  as  the  words  died 
away  in  a  suppressed  sob,  he  left  the  door,  took  off 
his  coat,  hat,  and  gloves,  walked  to  the  fire  to  warm 
his  fingers,  then  went  over  to  the  window  and 
wearily  muttered  to  himself,  addressing  the  si- 
lence : 

"How  fast  the  snowflakes  fall,  the  sleeping  world 
will  soon  have  a  warm  white  coverlet.  What  a 
realm  of  shadows,  and  what  a  quiet  peacefulness 
creeps  over  the  face  of  nature  in  the  twilight,  how 
sweet  the  carol  of  the  snowflakes  floating  dreamily 
about  the  wraithlike  branches;  the  great  world  out 
there  is  nodding — nodding,  and  will  soon  sleep  while 
I  must  be  up  and  doing."  He  drew  the  curtains, 
returned  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood  upon  the  hearth 
rug  contemplating  the  portrait  of  a  man  above  him. 

"Very  good,  Grey,"  interrupted  Mr.  Knowles. 
"Very  good — you  carry  the  funeral  still  in  your 
eyes ;  but  say,  old  man,  take  your  time  getting  from 
the  window  to  the  fire,  and  turn  left  centre  more, 
when  you  reach  it,  then  the  portrait  will  be  directly 
in  front  of  you,  see?  That's  right — try  it  again." 
They  went  back  to  the  entrance,  and  I,  sitting  there 
in  the  darkness  alone,  as  the  rehearsal  progressed, 
was  spellbound. 

"And  you  are  gone,  father,"  the  rich  voice  of 


C!)e  gfleabfng 33 

Charles  Grey  again  echoed  through  the  dim,  shad- 
owy place,  "and  I  am  alone,  at  your  request,  to  lay 
the  pages  of  the  past  wide  before  me,  here  in  the 
room  where  you  and  I  have  spent  so  many  cozy 
hours."  Impulsively  he  left  the  mantel  and  crossed 
to  a  small  desk,  unlocked  it,  took  out  a  bunch  of 
sealed  letters,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  table,  ad- 
justed the  light,  opened  them,  and  read. 

Spit! — Spat! — Siss! — the  logs  upon  the  hearth 
sent  gleams  of  light  aquiver  through  the  loneliness 
of  the  room.  As  the  youth  read,  the  expression  on 
his  face  changed  from  one  of  interest  to  that  of 
horror,  and  finally  he  read  aloud  as  if  to  wave  the 
specters  away  with  spoken  words.  As  the  rich 
voice  went  on  and  on,  I,  so  unused  to  having  the 
harp—strings  of  my  soul  played  upon,  sat  wide- 
eyed,  a  pale-faced  girl,  in  the  great  empty  theatre, 
my  hands  held  tight  together,  each  finger  interlaced, 
drinking  in  the  tragedy  before  me,  little  knowing  in 
what  way  the  fingers  of  the  world  would  clutch  me 
and  tighten  about  my  frail  body  when  held  up  to 
face  that  avalanche  of  might — the  great  unknown 
that  lay  beyond  my  village. 

But  the  picture  was  still  before  me,  and  the  rich 
voice  read  aloud  from  one  of  the  letters  on  the  table. 
It  was  from  his  dead  father,  and  I  was  losing  the 
point  of  the  scene  by  my  wandering  thoughts. 

"Son  you  have  ever  been  to  me,  although  the 
blood  of  another  man  flows  in  your  veins.  I  tell 
you  this  now,  because  I  could  not  rest  in  my  grave 
if  you  were  cheated  out  of  the  estate,  and,  knowing" 
full  well  the  character  of  my  relations,  I  am  forced 
to  tell  you  a  bitter — bitter  truth.  You  are  not  my 


34 Lotie   3n 

son,  Hulbert,  although  my  dear  wife  was  your 
mother." 

The  dark  eyes  of  Charles  Grey  were  lifted  in  the 
character  of  Hulbert,  the  son,  and  as  he  rested  his 
cheek  upon  his  hand  after  the  disclosure  of  his  birth 
— I  traveled  with  him  in  the  dark  chaos  of  his 
despair.  When  the  silence  was  again  broken  his 
eyes  grew  big  in  their  trouble,  and  the  voice  spoke, 
a  heavy  sigh  of  relief  warmed  my  heart 

"Oh,  the  mother-face,"  he  murmured,  "the 
mother-face  of  my  babyhood,  the  sweet  mouth  with 
it's  passionate  curves,  the  hungry,  soulful  eyes,  and 
that  is  all — only  a  flash — the  thought-reality  of  my 
life  has  been  the  serious  father  with  the  sorrowing 
face  whose  lips  mentioned  her  but  once, — once  in 
all  my  life." 

In  his  excitement  he  got  up  and  walked  the  floor, 
— anguish  upon  his  brow ;  muttering,  "The  child  of 
shame!  The  cruel,  cruel  truth  of  it — and  I  must 
face — it — alone.  The  offspring  of  lust!  Ah,  the 
pain — of — knowing — it  freezes  my  blood.  I  cannot 
bear  it, — no,  I  cannot  bear  it.  Where  are  you, 
father,  you  that  have  always  been  everything  to  me?" 
He  opened  the  window  as  if  to  breathe  freer,  and 
the  answer  seemed  borne  upon  the  night  wind,  mov- 
ing beyond  the  stage  window,  "Dust  to  dust,  Ashes 
to  ashes." 


36 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  weakness  seemed  to  creep  about  me  as  the  sol- 
emn words  echoed  through  the  silent, aisles,  and  it 
was  a  relief  when  the  stage  manager  called  out  cheer- 
ily, "Hold  on  a  minute,  Grey!"  and  then  hurriedly 
ran  down  the  long  black  aisle  and  caught  Mr.  Alex- 
ander by  the  coat  tails  as  he  was  disappearing 
through  the  centre  door.  A  short  conversation  took 
place  between  them,  and  then  he  came  to  me  once 
more  and  sat  down. 

"All  right  boys,  fire  ahead."  It  was  almost  a 
sacrilegious  letting  down  from  the  serious  pinnacle 
where  my  emotions  had  guided  me,  but  the  tenseness 
of  the  moment  had  been  almost  more  than  I  could 
bear,  and  instinctively  I  knew  that  Wilbur  Knowles 
had  been  watching  me  and  had  ordered  that  stop  to 
bring  me  back  to  the  consciousness  that  it  was  but 
the  third  act  of  a  play  after  all.  Poor  little  me,  so 
unused  to  looking  at  life  from  an  unreal  standpoint. 

The  drama  of  the  stricken  youth  continued,  and 
Hulbert  now  slowly  closed  the  windowed  door, 
drew  the  silken  curtains,  and  the  silent  snow-covered 
world  was  gone.  He  returned  to  the  table  as  if  fas- 
cinated by  the  letters  lying  there,  and  once  more 
addressed  them: 

"You  silent-tongued  monks  from  the  monastery 
of  the  past !  You  must  speak,  I  suppose !" 


36  JL  o  ti  e   3  n 

My  whole  being  was  again  in  a  thrill  of  emotion. 
Each  letter  stood  before  me  as  a  living  thing,  and 
I  rebelled  in  my  heart,  even  as  the  son  Hulbert,  over 
their  untimely  birth. 

"How  I  should  like  to  strangle  you,"  he  went  on, 
and  then,  reaching  for  the  table,  took  up  the  letter 
and  once  more  spoke  to  it. 

"There  you  are.  mysterious  and  dreadful  beings, 
clothed  in  the  raiment  of  truth,  and  I  must  let  you 
speak  and  tell  me  of  her, — the  mother  I  have  never 
known,  yet  ever  cherished  and  guarded  most  sac- 
redly within  my  heart." 

Then  as  if  waving  away  all  weakness,  he  breathed 
a  deep  sigh,  sat  down  by  the  table  and  resumed  the 
interrupted  reading  of  the  letter. 

"We  lived  happily  together,  Hulbert — your 
mother  and  I — I  could  never  understand  what  was 
missing,  and  yet  she,  so  young,  so  lovely,  must  have 
felt  some  lack,  for  she  left  me.  For  years  I  knew 
not  of  even  her  whereabouts.  It  is  a  very  painful 
subject,  Hulbert,  and  one  I  cannot  write  on  at 
length,  it  suffices  to  tell  you  that  after  three  years  of 
silence  she  summoned  me  to  her  death  bed.  I  found 
her — Oh!  the  pity  of  how  I  found  her — alone — un- 
cared  for,  starving, — dying  with  you  at  her  breast. 
Can  you  wonder  that  I  forgave  my  darling,  for- 
gave and  forgot,  aye,  and  even  loved  as  I  had  ever 
loved?  Who  was  I  to  stand  in  judgment?  I  loved, 
and,  loving,  saw  only  her  sweet  pleading  face,  her 
great  tender  eyes,  mute  with  sorrow,  the  pathetic 
droop  of  her  lips. 

"Her  story  is  briefly  told:  the  man  upon  whom 
she  lavished  her  love  soon  tired  of  his  plaything — • 


Cf)e  fiHeatiing  37 


she  was  honest,  Hulbert,  I  believe  it.    Yes,  I  believe  j 
it,  and  she  cared  for  the  man.    It  was  no  play  step  ) 
for  her  —  she  was  honest,  and,  being  honest  in  her 
love,  she  has  not  sinned,  but  was  sinned  against.-  - 
Deserted,  forgotten  in  her  great  trial,  she  thought 
of  me,  of  how  I  had  loved  her,  and  I  have,  Hulbert, 
with  all  my  soul.     Thinking  of  me  and  the  death 
angel  creeping  nearer,  brought  courage,  so  she  sent 
for  me. 

"Shall  I  ever  forget  that  death  chamber  —  the  thin, 
scared  woman  face,  the  meager  covering  of  that  bed, 
and  you,  a  little  babe  on  her  bosom?" 

He  stopped  reading,  his  eyes  filled  with  unshed 
tears,  and  a  cry  of  anguish  burst  from  his  white 
lips  :  "Oh,  my  God  !  I  cannot  read  more  —  it  is  too 
awful." 

Charles  Grey  stood  before  me  in  this  moment  at 
the  full  height  of  his  power  as  an  actor.  His  eyes, 
his  mouth,  even  the  fingers  of  his  hands  acted,  and 
at  once  I  knew  what  it  meant  to  portray  life,  to  play 
upon  the  heart  strings  of  a  careless  public,  waiting 
to  criticise  or  admire.  I  knew  what  the  Professor 
meant  now,  when  he  said  I  would  bring  the  country 
lanes,  the  brown  sparrows  of  the  wood,  and  even 
the  odor  of  rose-petals  to  the  city  folk  in  my  voice. 
I  knew  now  ;  but  to  return  to  Hulbert. 

After  the  exclamation  of  horror  the  poor  burden- 
stricken  boy  went  over  to  the  hearth,  stirred  up  the 
dying  embers  as  if  to  force  a  little  ray  of  light  into 
his  over-troubled  brain  ;  then  drawn  again  by  a  force 
he  could  not  disobey,  returned  to  the  table  and  con- 
tinued reading: 

"She  pointed  to  you,  Hulbert,  and  whispered, 


38 Lotte   3n 

'take  him  to  your  heart, — let  him  atone — atone, 
teach  him  to  love  as  I  never  could.  He  is  mine,  part 
of  my  bone  and  blood,  and  you  loved  me,  let  him 
atone,  atone!'  and  she  died.  How  glad  I  was  that 
my  hand  had  sought  hers  after  her  first  words — 
for  I  feel  she  knew  all  was  well.  My  poor  darling ! 
Forgive,  Hulbert,  as  I  have  forgiven!  You  are  a 
man  and  can." 

At  the  word  forgive  he  arose,  anger  upon  his  face, 
his  fists  clinched,  nostrils  dilated.  "No,  I  can  never 
forgive!  Every  man  has  a  right  to  be  well  born, 
honestly  born!  The  world  has  sorrows  enough,  a 
child  should  be  free  to  look  his  fellows  in  the  face 
and  not  sneak  like  a  cur  as  if  he  were  at  fault!" 

From  behind  the  scenes  chimes  slowly  tolled  the 
vesper  hour.  As  they  echoed  in  the  quiet  room 
where  the  shadows  were  at  play  in  every  corner  they 
acted  as  magic  upon  the  excited  youth.  Slowly 
anger  faded  away,  and  he  turned  to  the  large  arm- 
chair at  the  fireside,  dropped  into  it  as  if  mentally 
and  physically  exhausted.  The  long  day  of  sadness, 
the  dreary  funeral  rites,  and  now  this  sudden  dis- 
closure had  been  too  much.  The  bell  ceased  tolling, 
and  he  whispered  as  if  to  the  glowing  embers : 

"Her  deathbed ! — my  mother's ! — and  he  forgave ! 
He,  her  wronged — husband! — and  proved  his  love 
by  carrying  her  son  away  in  his  bosom.  The  years 
have  crept  on,  and  he  suffered  silently  and  alone, 
hiding  the  truth  and  the  misery.  The  world  must 
never  know  that  great  man's  sorrow,"  he  cried 
aloud,  rising.  "Money  could  not  compensate.  My 
father,"  he  whispered,  addressing  the  portrait.  "I 
will  be  silent — the  hooded  ghosts  of  the  past  shall 


Cf)e  (LOcatring  39 

never  strip  her — my  mother.  Her  shame  must 
never  be  judged  by  a  grinning  public.  Money  is 
nothing  to  me — I  am  young,  I  can  earn  it !"  and  his 
face  glowed  with  the  passion  of  the  thought  of  the 
new  vista  of  life  opening  before  him. 


40  Jloue   3n 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"Now,  Miss  Grier,"  whispered  Mr.  Knowles  in 
my  ear,  gathering  his  legs  together  and  straighten- 
ing up  as  he  bent  toward  me  in  the  dim  light.  "It 
is  time  for  your  entrance,  and  we  had  better  begin 
picking  our  way  through  these  seats.  "I  couldn't 
expect  you  to  jump  the  orchestra  rail  so  early  in  the 
game,  could  I?" 

I  was  in  another  world,  swept  away  in  the  pas- 
sion of  another's  grief.  It  was  my  first  sight  into 
the  real  drama,  the  reading  at  home  had  been  vague, 
something  outside  of  myself ;  but  this  called  the  very 
soul  out  of  me,  and  my  hands  ached,  each  finger 
tired  with  the  tenseness  of  the  firm  interlacing,  and 
the  voice  beside  me  startled  me.  I  was  lost,  lost  in 
the  world  of  sorrow,  where  souls  struggled.  A 
trembling  seized  me,  and  I  followed  Mr.  Knowles 
like  one  in  a  dream. 

We  reached  the  stage  after  much  winding  in  and 
out  between  the  closed,  plush  chairs.  The  stage  was 
almost  dark,  just  the  fire-glow.  It  was  so  arranged 
that  my  entrance  might  not  be  noticed,  the  audience 
must  not  perceive  the  new  personality.  I  must  come 
upon  the  scene  gradually,  not  in  the  full  glare  of 
lights.  By  the  fire-place  was  a  large  armchair  and 
a  sort  of  fernery  divided  it  from  the  piano.  I  was 


Cfte  QUeatung  41 

to  sing  hid  away  amid  the  green  life  and  the  glow 
of  the  fire-log. 

We  stood  in  the  wings.  I  saw  only  Hulbert,  the 
youth,  facing  his  life ;  it  grew  easy  to  enter  and  be 
a  part  of  that  life.  It  was  as  my  own,  and  when  I 
read  the  lines  after  my  cue  had  been  given  which 
ushered  me  before  the  footlights,  "May  I  come  in, 
Hulbert  ?  I  have  tea  and  talk  for  you,"  I  was  even 
eager  to  enter  and  lend  my  aid  to  the  fictitious 
comfort  of  the  lonely  youth. 

It  was  real  to  me,  all  the  sorrow,  all  the  puzzling, 
and  when  his  answer  came  to  my  question,  "Just  in 
a  minute,  Helene,"  I  played  the  role  as  if  it  were 
my  life. 

For  a  second  there  was  a  pause  as  if  he  hesitated 
to  let  me  know  the  secret,  just  divulged  in  the  let- 
ters. But  it  was  ended  almost  instantly,  and  "Come 
in,  Helene,"  opened  the  door  for  me  to  enter.  "I 
am  lonesome  for  you,  dear,  come  quickly !" 

In  my  hands  I  carried  a  large  tray  with  coffee 
cups  on  it.  I  placed  it,  at  his  words,  on  a  low  table 
on  one  side  of  the  hearth  and  back  of  Hulbert.  His 
eyes  followed  me  as  I  adjusted  each  cup,  then  turn- 
ing toward  him  impulsively  and  reddening  with 
maiden  blushes  (they  were  real  and  not  stage  ones), 
I  read  my  next  lines. 

"Why,  Hulbert,  how  still  you  are  and  how  gloomy 
everything  is !"  thus  questioning,  I  crossed  the  room 
to  turn  on  more  light,  but  he  stopped  me  by  catch- 
ing my  dress. 

"Come  close,  Helene,  and  tell  me  if  you  love  me, 
tell  me  as  you  never  told  me  before.  Will  you,  dear, 
gratify  me?  Pretend  I  am  ill  or  dying  or  any- 


42          Lotte   5n 

thing,  but  tell  me  once  here  by  the  firelight  how 
much  you  love  me." 

"How  strange  you  are,  Hulbert,"  and  I  could  feel 
a  tender  seriousness  veil  my  face,  a  seriousness  born 
of  real  feeling.  I  came  to  him  as  he  begged  me,  his 
hand  catching  mine,  drew  me,  a  reluctant  me,  to  his 
feet,  and  as  I  knelt  there  looking  up  into  his  earnest 
dark  eyes,  the  world  was  forgotten  and  just  we  two 
lived. 

The  ferns  back  of  us  acted  as  a  screen,  the  green 
life  helped  me  in  the  part,  and  the  lines  came  easier 
than  before. 

"I  can't  seem  to  find  words  for  the  asking,  Hul- 
bert." 

He  pressed  me  to  him,  close  in  his  arms,  and 
finally  lifted  my  chin  to  a  level  with  his,  looked  into 
my  eyes  and  again  pleaded,  "Just  this  once,  Helene, 
tell  me — tell  me?" 

"I'll  tell  it  to  you  in  a  song,  Hulbert,  will  that 
do  just  as  well?  It  will  be  easier." 

"Any  way,  my  dearest,  only  tell  me — tell  me  how 
much  you  love  me." 

I  drew  from  his  embrace  slowly,  his  arms  were 
unwilling  to  let  me  go.  The  piano  was  only  a  step 
away,  and  when  I  reached  it  I  was  still  almost  within 
touch  of  him. 

The  brusque  voice  of  Wilbur  Knowles  entered  my 
dream  world  just  there. 

"Now,  Miss  Grier,"  he  cried  from  the  wings, 
"keep  your  face  front  as  much  as  possible;  you  are 
doing  beautifully  and  following  the  cues  bully." 

I  turned  my  attention  to  the  piano  again  and  my 
fingers  pressed  the  keys  with  a  certain  bashfulness 


43 


at  first,  and  then  they  chased  each  other  nimbly  back 
and  forth;  at  length  finding  the  part  of  melody, 
tried  to  tell  of  the  wonders  in  the  realms  where 
they  wandered.  Then  song  burst  from  me,  and  I 
sang  —  sang  as  I  never  dreamed  that  I  could.  The 
words  flew  to  my  lips  as  my  own  and  passed  from 
me  to  that  grief-stricken  one.  I  laid  bare  my  very 
soul.  Each  word  was  as  a  pearl  for  him,  and  I 
strung  them  together;  jewels  for  the  love  that  had 
never  entered  my  life. 

"Bravo  —  Bravo!"  came  from  the  dark  in  front. 
I  was  utterly  unconscious  of  everything  but  the  life 
I  had  entered.  It  was  my  life  —  my  life  and  I  lived 
it.  Ah!  how  I  lived  it! 

After  I  finished  there  was  silence,  and  then  I 
turned  to  him  and  read,  "Don't  you  understand, 
Hulbert?" 

There  was  no  answer.  I  was  supposed  to  throw 
myself  upon  his  heart  and  say,  "Don't  you  know 
how  much  I  love  you  now?"  and  I  said  it  with  an 
abandonment  that  my  mother  would  have  marveled 
at,  could  she  have  seen. 

"Yes,  Helene,"  he  answered,  "I  believe  you  love 
me  —  I  do  —  but  dear,"  he  urged,  sobs  in  his  voice, 
"love  is  the  house  of  joy  and  the  house  of  my  heart 
is  sad,  so  how  can  I  bid  you  enter?  I  don't  know 
how  to  tell  you  the  story,  little  girl,"  he  faltered, 
as  he  pressed  me  closer. 

"You  must  have  coffee,  Hulbert,"  I  announced, 
and,  rising,  I  busied  myself  about  the  tray,  while 
he  sat  abstracted.  "Here  drink  this,  Hulbert,  I  beg," 
and  I  held  out  a  dainty  coffee  cup  from  which  the 
strong  aroma  of  Mocha  and  Java  was  rising. 


44 Lotie   an 

"Not  yet,  Helena — not  yet — kiss  me  once  more 
and  then  go  over  to  the  table  and  read  the  letter  lying 
open  there.  When  you  have  read  it  and  know  that  I 
am  a  poor  man,  and  worse  than  poor,  my  girl — but 
read,  read." 

I  went  to  the  table  as  he  asked  me.  The  letter  was 
open  as  he  said,  and  while  he  sat  there  sad-eyed  and 
anxious,  overcome  by  the  sorrows  of  the  day,  I  read 
and  reread  the  closely  written  pages.  At  its  close 
I  tremblingly  glanced  his  way,  as  the  cue  suggested, 
then  on  tip  toe  I  reached  his  chair-back,  and,  lean- 
ing over,  kissed  his  forehead,  so  drawn  into  deep 
creases. 

"Now,  I  can  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you,  Hul- 
bert,  with  all  my  soul,  with  all  my  being,  and — and 
I  understand.  We  will  lock  it  away  in  our  hearts, 
Hulbert.  You  and  I,  dear,  will  forget  the  sorrow 
and  only  remember  where  the  picture  is  sweet  to 
think  on.  I  now  know  you  to  be  the  man  of  my 
dreams,  through  the  dust  and  turmoil  of  life, 
through  the  sorrow,  the  anguish,  and  the  joy  I  can 
lean  upon  you — we  will  forget  and  forgive  together, 
Hulbert,  you  and  I." 

"Ah,  my  dearest !"  he  cried,  and  drew  me  around 
before  him,  "love  is  indeed  a  house  of  joy,"  and  his 
dark  eyes  were  filled  with  new  hope  and  gladness. 

Was  it  over,  that  first  rehearsal,  was  it  over?  I 
hardly  heard  the  congratulation  upon  every  side.  I 
longed  to  slip  away  unnoticed,  for  my  heart  was 
heaving  and  my  blood  leaping  through  each  vein.  I 
was  glad  when  I  heard  a  voice  say : 

"Good,  good,  Miss  Grier,  you  will  carry  the  part, 
all  right." 


C&e  Cleaning  45 


Oh,  it  had  been  real  to  me,  all  the  sorrow,  the  love, 
and  I  was  tired.  I  put  away  the  hand  clasps  nerv- 
ously, a  child  taxed  to  the  uttermost  in  a  new  world, 
and  my  lips  feverishly  murmured  my  adieus  as  I 
closed  the  stage  door  behind  me  and  stepped  out  into 
the  cool  air. 

"Yes,  I'll  be  on  time,  Mr.  Knowles,  and  no,  I 
won't  forget,"  and  I  was  away  from  the  babble  of 
voices. 


1 


46  Lotoe   3(n 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Absorbed  I  stumbled  along  the  path  to  the  outer 
entrance  into  the  street  trying  to  dissect  the  emo- 
tions stirring  in  my  breast.  Overhanging  trees  held 
out  long  wraith-like  fingers  above  me  almost  shut- 
ting out  the  blue  sky  in  their  tender  care  to  weave 
about  me  their  protection.  But  I  hurried  along  ab- 
stractedly. Finally  leaving  the  block  of  elms  with 
their  brooding  care,  I  reached  the  busy  village  thor- 
oughfare. The  tiny  store  windows  were  rich  in 
colors;  silks  and  laces  flaunted  their  beauty  tempt- 
ingly. Graceful  hats,  with  long  white  plumes  rest- 
ing on  tall  racks,  were  enough  to  interest  any  girl 
with  a  love  for  the  beautiful.  Unseeing  I  rushed  on, 
for  the  excited  tension  of  nerves  within  bore  me 
along  at  a  rushing  pace.  Suddenly  I  became  con- 
scious of  hurrying  feet  behind  me.  A  voice  in  a 
low  persuasive  call  of  my  name  brought  me  to  a 
standstill  just  at  the  turn  of  the  road  that  led  off 
the  avenue  into  a  less  pretentious  street,  at  the  end 
of  which  our  cottage  stood. 

I  knew  deep  in  my  heart  whose  voice  it  was.  It 
was  a  psychological  moment — the  law  of  attraction 
was  being  upheld.  I  sent  shy  side  glances  over  my 
shoulder,  but  girl-like  shut  my  ears  to  the  music  of 
the  voice  that  came  to  me  on  the  air  with  indescrib- 
able sweetness. 


47 


"Miss  Grier — Oh,  Miss  Grier!"  again  I  let  shy 
glances  from  wide  innocent  girl-eyes  wander  dream- 
ily through  the  trees,  as  if  there  seeking  the  voice. 

"Miss  Grier,  I  say,  Miss  Grier!" 

It  was  Charles  Grey. 

"My!  but  I  am  out  of  breath  trying  to  reach  you! 
You  are  certainly  hard  to  catch,  but  you  see  I  have 
accomplished  the  feat!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  reached 
my  side. 

I  lessened  my  hurried  pace  out  of  compassion  for 
his  breathless  condition. 

"I  just  had  to  come  and  get  it  out  of  my  system," 
he  declared,  adapting  his  gait  to  mine. 

"Get  what  out  of  your  system,  Mr.  Grey?  I 
don't  understand,"  and  again  my  eyes  went  wander- 
ing. I  was  full  of  understanding,  but  mother  Eve 
was  strong  within  me,  and  I  could  not  let  the  chance 
go  by  to  tempt.  I  purposely  rolled  innocent  eyes 
toward  him  and  followed  the  eyes  with  a  full  front 
view  of  an  innocent  questioning  face. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  bully  I  thought  you 
were  in  the  part,"  his  face  was  radiant  with 
earnestness,  "and  to  think  you  never  did  it  be- 
fore! I  just  had  to  follow,  and  tell  you  that  you 
captivated  us  all.  Why,  the  old  man  is  all  swelled 
up  over  his  find,  as  he  puts  it." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Grey,  I  am  so  glad  you  liked  me!" 
I  burst  forth  in  true  village  fashion,  quite  forget- 
ting the  role  of  mother  Eve.  I  was  a  girl  now,  a 
country  girl  at  that.  The  momentary  flaunting  of 
superior  grown  up  airs  was  gone.  I  blushed  and 
stammered  in  true  orthodox  fashion  and  felt  all 


48 £,otie  3n 

hands  and  arms,  not  forgetting  the  awkwardness 
of  feet. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Grey,  you  were  wonderful.  You 
made  me  forget  it  was  only  a  play,  and  put  me  in 
the  part  utterly.  I  shall  always  remember  the  feel- 
ing that  thumped  in  my  breast  at  your  unhappiness. 
There  were  just  two  things  in  my  heart  when  I 
stood  in  the  doorway,  a  desire  to  comfort  you  and 
an  utter  obliviousness  to  all  else  but  the  still,  fire- 
lit  room,  where  the  fiends  of  tragedy  were  loosed." 

Overhead  the  birds  twittered,  the  pebbles 
crunched  beneath  our  feet,  and  the  sun  lay  warm 
and  radiant  on  the  path  ahead.  There  had  been  a 
rain  the  day  before,  and  the  air  was  full  of  a  fresh- 
ness that  made  us  both  draw  deep  into  our  beings, 
its  fragrance. 

"You  like  the  country,  Miss  Grier?" 

"I  know  nothing  else  but  the  quiet  of  long,  elm- 
bordered  lanes  and  the  mystery  of  the  rich  meadow 
lands  with  the  stretch  of  timber  beyond.  I  have 
only  heard  from  afar  the  murmur  of  even  the  vil- 
lage gossips,  so  to  ourselves  have  we  lived,  mother 
and  I.  Then  for  variety,  I  have  known  the  rough 
winter  winds,  the  snowy  tree-trunks,  the  gladness 
of  living  that  comes  from  breasting  the  wind  out 
in  the  open,  where  it  whistles  through  ice-branches 
like  a  lost  soul.  I  know  nothing  else  but  the  coun- 
try, Mr.  Grey.  I  have  read  of  crowded  streets,  the 
flare  of  many  lights,  the  bustle  and  roar  of  tramp- 
ing feet,  the  hurrying  people  in  the  city.  The  dear 
Professor  opened  my  eyes  into  the  world  of  song, 
but  he  also  described  to  me  the  haunts  of  artists 
where  they  stretch  their  canvas, — where  poets  sing 


49 


their  lays,  where  art  struggles  for  recognition  that 
it  may  wing  above  the  sordid  grind  of  the  every- 
day. Then  my  mother,  she  once  lived  there,  amid 
the  whirl,  so  I  know  what  lies  beyond  my  village. 
You  see,  Mr.  Grey,  my  mother  came  here  just  be- 
fore I  was  born,  and  we  have  lived  in  our  little  nest 
of  a  home  ever  since." 

Our  eyes  met  as  I  pointed  ahead  where  the  fence 
of  our  garden  commenced,  and  a  sudden  terror  shot 
though  my  heart.  "But  why  do  I  tell  you  all  this! 
I  don't  know  you,  Mr.  Grey  —  I  don't  know  you." 

"And  why  did  I  follow?  It  was  no  easy  matter 
to  follow,  was  it,  Miss  Grier?"  Then  we  both 
burst  out  laughing,  while  our  tongues  rushed  into 
safer  channels. 

At  last  the  garden  gate  was  reached,  and  in  my 
imagination  I  felt  the  coziness  within  and  the  dainty 
tea  table  weighted  down  with  tempting  tea  and  bis- 
cuits, with  jam,  and  gooseberry  jam  at  that.  The 
jam  spoke  strongest  to  me.  As  I  held  out  my  hand 
in  farewell,  a  guilty  feeling  crept  over  me,  at  my 
unwillingness  to  share  the  goodies.  I  almost  felt 
he  knew  my  thought  as  he  stood  tall  and  dark  be- 
neath the  warm  gold  of  the  sun.  But  I  did  so  want 
to  tell  it  all  to  my  mother  alone,  this  first  flight  of 
mine  into  the  great  world.  I  had  tried  my  wings, 
they  ached,  and  I  wanted  to  creep  beneath  the  soft 
mother-breast  and  be  still.  Did  he  understand  all 
this  —  Charles  Grey,  as  he  clasped  my  hand?  Did 
the  desire  so  penetrate  my  being  that  it  spoke  to 
him  through  my  eyes  as  I  raised  them  to  his?  It 
must  have  been  so,  else  the  gentleness  of  his  refusal 
to  enter  would  not  have  thrilled  me. 


50 Lotie   Jn 

"One  thing,  Miss  Grier,  before  I  retrace  my  steps 
to  the  hotel.  I  have  a  surprise  for  you.  I  was  born 
in  this  village,  and  my  mother  and  father  both  died 
here,  leaving  me  a  tiny  babe  at  the  mercy  of 
strangers.  Will  you  let  me  come  and  see  you  to- 
morrow morning  early  before  rehearsal,  and  will 
you  help  me  locate  the  home  where  I  was  born  ?  It 
is  long  closed  up, — will  you?" 

I  looked  my  answer,  and  the  garden  gate  went 
click,  just  as  my  mother  opened  the  door. 


C&e  QUeatring  51 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  dark  shadows  of  night  at  last,  and  the  wind 
still  amid  the  trees.  Some  days  are  different  from 
others;  they  rise  before  us  too  beautiful  for  mem- 
ory ever  to  forget,  and  my  day  from  the  rose-tinted 
morn  to  the  eventide  had  been  filled  with  beauty. 
It  had  teemed  with  excitement,  and  now  as  I  lay 
in  my  bed  I  was  tired,  my  limbs  trembled,  I  was 
restless.  I  had  experienced  a  mingling  of  emo- 
tions. The  sea  of  countenances  in  the  theatre  still 
rose  before  me,  reflecting  a  cold  steely  glare  of  in- 
difference, then  came  the  haughty  face  of  pride 
waiting  to  hurl  an  unjust  criticism  upon  me. 

They  drifted  by  as  I  lay  in  the  dark  thinking  it 
all  over,  but  I  had  won.  I  had  journeyed  over  the 
path  of  criticism,  past  the  myriad  of  unfriendly 
eyes,  to  the  threshold  of  hearts.  My  voice  had 
found  their  good  will,  for  I  had  been  recalled  after 
my  song,  and  I  had  sung  an  aria  of  the  woods. 
A  quaint,  weird  thing  my  mother  had  chanted  to 
me  since  my  babyhood.  The  words  described  moss- 
covered  rocks  and  the  little  children  ferns  that 
stroked  them  so  lovingly,  the  great  trees  that  held 
out  their  arms  with  fatherly  protection,  and  the 
quiver  of  tenderness  upon  the  leaves  in  the  en- 
chanted lullaby-land. 

Although  my  mother  had  been  firm  in  her  refusal 


52 jLoae   3fn 

to  come  and  see  her  birdling  try  its  wings,  I  knew 
in  some  far  corner  she  was  sitting,  and  it  was  to 
her  I  sang  the  old  melody,  of  the  dear  woods  and 
the  trees  she  had  taught  me  to  love.  My  heart,  as 
I  stood  before  the  footlights,  was  dumb  from  ex- 
cess of  feeling,  yet  words  were  clamoring  even  as 
the  rain  clamors  to  feed  the  desire  of  the  thirsty 
verdure.  I  was  eager  to  pour  out  my  joy  into  the 
dark  that  stretched  wide  before  me. 

Is  it  not  a  blessed  relief  to  voice  our  desires,  to 
set  ringing  through  the  hills  our  heart-longings, 
and  find  a  satisfying  answer,  as  comfort  blossom- 
ing like  the  wild  flowers  at  our  feet?  I  had  been 
full  of  desire  when  I  stood  before  that  great  audi- 
ence. Would  it  understand  what  I  would  lay  at  its 
feet?  Each  soul  has  its  other  self,  and  that  other 
part,  only,  understands.  Was  there  one  within  the 
sound  of  my  voice  that  understood?  It  was  my 
first  step  in  the  desert  of  life,  alone.  Would  I 
wither  and  fade  by  the  way  and  succumb  to  its 
scorching  as  I  traveled  on?  Would  I  droop  and 
pine  under  it's  disappointing  sun-glare?  Or  would 
I  have  patience  to  know  life  in  the  human  untruth, 
and,  as  my  mother,  still  keep  love  alive  in  my  heart  ? 

All  this  came  to  me  as  I  stood  before  that  sea  of 
faces  and  sought  their  hearts  in  song,  and  all  this 
had  followed  me  home  even  to  my  bedchamber.  In 
our  youth  how  freely  we  long  to  lay  our  treasures 
at  the  feet  of  the  world.  My  youth  had  been  spent 
near,  near  to  the  great  heart  of  nature,  and  so  I 
had  much  to  give,  for  she  had  been  lavish  with 
me  and  her  messages  lay  in  my  soul  for  the  asking. 
iThere  is  a  mute  pathos  about  the  aged  who  can- 


53 


not  recall  fields  of  daisies,  the  chasing  of  butter- 
flies, playing  hide  and  seek  through  tall  field 
grasses,  who  cannot  remember  a  tree-friend  in  a 
far-away  youth-day.  The  Professor  had  told  me 
the  city  was  filled  with  such  as  these,  and  I  longed 
to  carry  all  this,  even  more  to  these  hungry  ones. 

Mr.  Knowles  had  said  they  might  want  me  to 
g&  with  the  company  on  its  departure  Monday. 
"Would  I  go?"  he  had  asked.  I  hardly  knew. 
The  little  bedroom  was  full  of  tender  recollections. 
It  joined  my  mother's,  and  the  door  stood  ajar  be- 
tween. Here  I  had  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  since 
my  baby  days,  the  ceiling  that  still  held  the  color 
of  the  blue  sky,  that  her  thought  had  put  there, 
with  here  and  there  a  star.  Ah,  the  nights,  I  had 
counted  them  as  I  tried  to  sleep  at  my  mother's 
bidding,  while  she  sat,  busy  sewing,  ever  sewing. 
The  in  and  out  of  stitches,  —  the  tired  hands  and 
the  ever  patient  droop  to  the  serious  mouth,  —  how 
it  all,  as  a  vision  was  before  me  as  my  thought 
went  back  over  the  days  that  memory  still  cherished. 

I  could  not  tell  her  of  this  new  offer,  not  to- 
night, so  I  had  crept  into  bed  to  be  alone,  to  think 
it  out.  Suddenly  a  light  flared  up  in  my  mother's 
room,  through  the  doorway  it  shone  over  my  bed, 
and  I  knew  sleep  had  not  come  to  her,  either. 
Something  told  me  to  slip  in  and  talk  it  out  with 
her,  and  I  followed  the  impulse.  There  she  was, 
bending  over  her  work  basket  as  she  always  did 
when  she  could  not  sleep  at  night.  It  seemed  an 
outlet  to  restless  nerves  that  tormented  her.  I 
stole  up  behind  her,  my  bare  feet  making  no  noise 
upon  the  carpet,  and  kissed  her  hair. 


54 Hone   3n 

"I  can't  sleep,  either,  Mother — let  me  get  in  your 
bed  and  watch  you  sew?" 

"I  don't  know  why  I  am  so  down-hearted,  Elsa," 
she  said.  "It  has  been  a  long,  long  day,  though  a 
proud,  happy  one,  and  yet,  dear,  there  is  a  pain 
that  goes  through  my  heart  like  a  knife,  and  it 
hurts,"  she  put  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed. 

I  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant,  I  knew  the  pain. 
It  was  hurting  me,  too,  but  not  in  the  same  way — 
youth  was  strong  in  me,  and  I  longed  to  spread  my 
wings,  yet  my  girl  heart  was  here  in  the  cottage 
with  her.  Would  I  tell  her  now  of  the  offer?  We 
had  shared  every  thought — yes,  I  would  tell  her, 
what  in  my  heart  I  felt  she  had  divined. 

"I  can  go  with  them,  mother,  Monday;  shall  I?" 

Bravely  she  lifted  her  tear-stained  face  and  drew 
me  into  her  arms. 

"My  little  baby — you  are  all  I  have  and  all  I  can 
ever  hope  to  have,  of  love — just  you,  with  your 
sweet  eyes — how  can  I  give  you  up — send  you  out 
into  the  world?  How  will  it  treat  you?  It  broke 
my  heart,  child,  and,  oh,  it  mustn't  hurt  my  little 
one!  You  won't  let  it,  will  you,  Elsa — you  won't 
let  it?  I  don't  regret  my  life,  child,  whatever  it 
has  been — although  it  has  only  been  half  a  life,  dear 
— just  you  and  a  memory  so  precious  to  cherish, 
that  as  I  look  back  I  would  live  it  all  over  again. 
But  you,  dear,  my  little  girl — I  have  tried  to  pre- 
pare you  when  the  time  came  for  you  to  go,  as  I 
knew  it  would  come,  some  day." 

"And  you  have  prepared  me,  mother,"  I  sobbed 
from  her  shoulder,  completely  overcome  at  the  sad- 
ness in  her  voice. 


Cfie  EOeatung 55 

She  drew  from  beneath  her  sewing  in  the  work 
basket — the  picture — and  we  bent  over  it  together. 

"You  love  him,  your  father,  Elsa?" 

"Yes,  mother,  with  all  my  heart." 

"You  must  always  love  him,  child, — always — he 
was  true  to  all  that  is  dear  in  man,  to  a  woman. 
Promise  you  will  always  love  him?"  and  her  hand 
nervously  held  me  so  that  my  eyes  were  on  a  level 
with  hers. 

"I  promise,  mother,  dear.  Now,  don't  be  sad.  I 
won't  go — I'll  tell  Mr.  Knowles  to-morrow  not  to 
consider  me." 

"But  you  must  go,  Elsa,  you  can't  bury  yourself 
here  in  this  little  village  as  I  have  done.  Lonely 
hearts  out  there  in  the  world  need  your  voice. 
Don't  something  within  tell  you  that,  dear?" 

"Yes,  but  how  can  I  go  and  leave  you  here  so 
alone?" 

"I  have  the  picture,  Elsa,  and  you  will  come 
back." 

"Oh!  I'll  earn  money,  mother,  and  you  shall 
come  to  me  in  the  city!"  I  cried  all  aglow.  In  a 
sudden  the  glamour  of  success  reached  me  from  the 
unknown. 

"No,  child,  I  can  never  go  into  the  world  of  peo- 
ple again,  I'll  stay  here  and  be  proud  of  my  darling, 
and  be  happy  in  her  happiness." 

I  kissed  her,  but  when  my  lips  pressed  her  cheek 
I  knew  that  where  I  was  she  must  be, — some  day. 
We  wiped  the  tears  away,  and  like  two  ghosts  crept 
into  bed,  her  bed,  as  I  had  done  many  times  before 
when  the  counting  of  stars  in  the  blue  ceiling  would 
not  send  me  into  slumberland. 


56  JLoue   3n 


CHAPTER  XL 

My  head  ached  the  next  morning,  and  I  slept 
until  the  sun  touched  softly  upon  my  face,  quite  an 
hour  after  my  usual  time  of  rising.  A  deep 
lethargy  held  me  and  my  eyes  refused  to  open,  the 
lids  lay  upon  my  cheek  like  lead.  It  was  only  after 
much  forcing  that  the  tired,  listless,  unrefreshed 
body  became  conscious  of  the  cool,  perfume-laden 
air  that  was  astir  in  the  room.  My  thoughts  came 
slowly,  almost  painfully — suddenly  from  my  heart 
to  my  brain  there  rushed  an  all-absorbing  conscious- 
ness of  something,  which  caused  me  to  jump  out  of 
bed.  It  was  as  if  a  tonic  had  been  administered 
and  had  penetrated  every  part  of  me.  Eyes  opened, 
the  heaviness  fled,  my  cheeks  glowed  under  the 
spell  of  the  mystery  that  sent  me  bounding  to  my 
feet,  and  thoughts  were  busy  as  I  hurried  to  dress 
in  the  chill  of  the  room.  As  I  pulled  on  soft  stock- 
ings and  bent  over  the  buttons  of  my  shoes,  I 
could  hear  my  mother's  voice  crooning  a  sad  little 
lullaby  as  she  busied  herself  in  the  kitchen,  but  I 
heard  it  as  a  sound  from  a  far-away  world — it 
meant  nothing  vital  to  my  being.  I  did  not  re- 
spond to  it  as  I  did  some  mornings. 

What  was  this  marvelous  thing,  that  was  speak- 
ing to  me  and  utterly  obliterating  all  the  dear  ties 
of  my  girlhood?  A  week  ago  I  had  awakened 


Cfje  GUeatring  57 

peacefully  as  a  child,  drawn  back  from  the  lullaby 
land,  into  the  busy  world,  wholly  absorbed  in  the 
sunbeams,  that  crept  into  my  room  to  welcome  me 
into  a  new  glad  day.  Now  life  was  holding  a 
sweeter  potion  to  my  lips,  and  I  drank,  drank,  and 
became  unconscious  of  the  dear  old  life.  Surely 
fate  was  leading  me  into  a  wonderful  world.  I 
was  in  a  mood  of  worship,  an  ecstasy  of  feeling  was 
thrilling  through  my  veins.  What  was  it?  It 
glowed  all  over  me  as  I  finished  the  adjusting  of 
ribbons  and  laces,  that  I  might  open  the  door  and 
go  forth  to  meet  the  dream  which  had  turned  my 
night  into  day.  The  sadness  that  had  closed  my 
eyes  in  the  wee  small  hours  was  forgotten,  and  the 
long  night,  during  which  I  lay  with  my  mother's 
hand  in  mine,  was  gone.  Had  my  soul  entered  the 
outer  circle  containing  that  other  one,  who  belonged 
to  me,  and  was  this  the  thrill  that  rises  from  the 
slight  pressure  of  feet  in  the  garden  of  love  ?  The 
clock  ticked  cheerily  from  the  book  rack  in  the 
adjoining  chamber,  and  before  leaving  the  room 
after  I  had  pinned  the  last  rebellious  lock  into  place, 
I  ran  in  to  see  if  it  were  really  late,  or  if  eager- 
ness within  my  heart  had  deceived  me. 

Just  as  I  entered  there  was  a  knock  at  the  cottage 
door,  and  I  stood  silent,  that  I  might  hear  who 
had  found  his  way  so  early  to  our  quiet  abode.  As 
I  listened  the  blushes  stole  over  my  face,  for  it  was 
the  voice  of  Charles  Grey  who  greeted  my  mother's 
good-morning.  He  had  not  forgotten.  I  laughed 
for  joy  and  burst  in  upon  them,  ere  my  mother 
could  tell  of  my  laziness. 

"Just  a  little  sip  of  coffee,  Mr.  Grey,  and  I  will 


58 Lone   3ln 

be  ready.  We  are  going  to  seek  Mr.  Grey's  birth- 
place, mother,"  I  explained,  "and  I  promised  to 
be  ready  early — but  you  see  I  overslept." 

"Yesterday  was  long  and  trying,"  said  my 
mother,  as  if  in  excuse  of  me. 

I  left  them  alone  and  disappeared  into  the  kitchen 
where  I  knew  the  coffee  was  waiting  me,  on  the 
back  of  the  stove.  I  could  not  sit  down,  I  was  too 
eager  to  be  off,  so  I  just  filled  a  cup  and  stood  by 
the  window,  while  I  drank  it. 

Oh!  the  deep,  deep  wonder  of  woodland  groves, 
the  strength  to  be  found  in  the  friendship  of  the 
pine  trees.  I  was  alive  to  it  all  as  I  tripped  gayly 
along  beside  the  serious  man,  who  a  mysterious 
something  within  my  heart  told  me  would  have  a 
voice  in  the  shaping  of  my  future.  I  had  a  child- 
like confidence  in  the  good  of  everything,  the  clover 
blossoms  and  the  hedges  along  the  old  lanes,  the 
dear,  free-hearted  flowers  sharing  their  blossoms  so 
liberally  by  the  way-side,  lay  on  my  heart  as  honey. 
I  lifted  joyous,  happy  eyes  to  the  dark  ones  of 
Charles  Grey,  and  they  mutely  asked  if  he  under- 
stood the  emotions,  that  were  surging  through  me. 
We  walked  along  in  silence  for  some  time,  till  at 
last  the  gladness  bubbled  forth  in  speech. 

"How  wonderful  it  all  is,  Mr.  Grey.  We  are 
told  about  fairy-land  from  our  baby  days,  but  it 
cannot  be  more  magical  than  a  morning  in  the 
country,  with  the  air  quite  still  and  the  clear  blue 
shadow  of  the  sun-tinged  sky  above." 

He  laughed  a  glad,  appreciative  laugh,  he  saw 
even  as  I,  and  my  heart  leaped  to  him  and  my  hand 
seemed  drawn  to  touch  even  the  hem  of  his  coat. 


Cfrc  ftOeatiing  59 


I  loved  life  as  I  had  never  loved  it  before,  because 
it  had  brought  me  into  near  contact  with  him. 

"How  far  is  it  to  Summit  Hill?"  he  asked. 

"About  a  ten-minute  walk,"  I  answered.  "I  al- 
ways walked  it  in  that  time  when  I  went  to  the 
Professor's." 

At  the  mention  of  the  Professor  I  stopped  still 
in  the  road  and  faced  him,  excitement  written  all 
over  my  face. 

"Is  your  home  a  brick  house,  and  was  it  let  this 
summer  to  a  Professor  Camden  from  the  city  ?" 

"I  hardly  know  the  details,"  he  answered,  "but  it 
seems  to  me  it  was  rented  to  somebody.  I  haven't 
seen  the  man  that  has  charge  of  it  for  years.  I 
have  never  felt  more  than  a  halfway  yearning  to 
see  the  place,  I  hardly  liked  the  thought  of  it.  Such 
fancies  will  take  hold  of  a  fellow,  you  know,  when 
both  father  and  mother  are  gone.  A  sort  of  dis- 
like settled  over  me  as  though  the  old  house  was 
responsible,  for  my  having  never  known  the  sweet- 
ness of  a  real  home." 

"It  is  a  dear  place  to  me,"  I  cried,  "if  it  is  the 
house  where  the  Professor  lived.  How  splendid  he 
was  and  how  often  have  I  listened  while  he  told  me 
of  the  studio  life  in  New  York  till  something  within 
me  became  unmanageable,  something  quite  differ- 
ent from  my  ordinary  self.  I  longed  to  be  a 
part  of  the  city  life;  —  one  of  the  busy  hurrying 
throng.  But  we  must  hasten,  don't  you  think, 
Mr.  Grey,  or  be  late  at  rehearsal.  I  am  afraid 
they  would  not  excuse  me  as  they  would  you." 

"Just  nine-thirty,"  he  replied,  taking  a  side  glance 


eo Lotie   Jn 

at  his  watch,  so  we  quickened  our  steps  and  ahead 
of  us  rose  Summit  Hill. 

"Is  that  it?"  I  cried  as  the  dear  brick  house  was 
gradually  outlined  against  the  sky.  "Oh,  I  hope  it 
is,"  and  then  blushed  at  my  impulsive  words,  they 
might  mean  so  much. 

Why  should  I  care  to  discover  that  the  Pro- 
fessor's last  home  was  the  home  of  this  stranger, 
whom  I  had  never  heard  of  until  a  few  days  ago. 
Why?  But  it  was  so,  and  as  we  opened  the  creak- 
ing rust-hinged  gate  and  picked  our  -way  through 
the  tall  weed-grown  path,  the  blood  went  leaping 
through  my  veins. 

Unlocking  the  door,  we  entered  the  darkness  of 
the  closely  boarded  rooms.  Everything  was  as 
mother  and  I  had  left  it.  We  lighted  a  candle,  half 
burned  away,  and  I  guided  him  through  the  apart- 
ments. I  glanced  up  at  him  now  and  then,  as  I 
described  the  summer  days  spent  there.  A  deep 
softness  lay  in  his  eyes  as  I  chattered  on. 

A  strange  happiness  possessed  me  as  I  walked 
beside  my  almost  silent  companion  through  the  de- 
serted place. 

At  last  we  reached  the  large  sitting-room  that 
the  Professor  had  loved  so  well  and  where  I  found 
the  pathway  that  led  me  into  the  realm  of  melody. 

"It  is  all  so  new  and  strange  to  me,  Miss  Grier," 
he  ventured,  as  we  faced  the  dingy  blackness  of 
the  fireplace  and  the  charred  half-burned  log  silent 
there;  his  tone  took  on  a  sad  regret  fulness  as  he 
went  on,  "I  was  but  a  babe  when  I  was  turned 
over  to  strangers,  but  they  gave  me  the  letters  that 
had  passed  between  my  parents  at  different  times,, 


Cfte  aaeatnng  61 


and  in  that  way  a  little  of  the  tenderness  which 
linked  their  hearts  together  came  to  me  and  awak- 
ened in  my  boy  breast  the  resolution  to  some  day 
visit  the  home  where  I  was  born.  But  I  always 
dreaded  the  coming  and  the  facing  of  the  past. 
You  make  the  visit  more  real  to  me,  Miss  Grier. 
It  would  have  all  been  so  vague  —  the  dull  bricks 
and  the  stiff  old  furniture  would  have  meant  noth- 
ing, without  your  guiding  hand.  How  can  I  thank 
you  for  so  endearing  to  me  the  home  that  has  never 
been  a  home?  You  are  a  queen  —  you  waved  your 
wand,  and  by  its  magic,  unknown  feelings  in  my 
heart  have  sprung  into  being;  they  might  have  lain 
dormant  forever  if  you,  in  your  sweet  generosity 
had  not  bade  them  awaken.  Now,  words  written 
on  yellow  paper  are  as  living  beings.  I  can  see  that 
mother,  whose  love  flowed  as  a  river  through  every 
line  of  closely  written  sentences,  as  I  never  saw 
her  before.  The  dear  home  life,  Miss  Grier,  that 
once  permeated  these  rooms  is  wafted  back  to  me 
from  the  long  ago.  I  shall  come  again  many 
times." 

His  eyes  held  a  far-away  expression,  and  obeying 
an  impulse  that  was  a  part  of  me,  having  many 
times  so  led  my  dear  one,  I  took  his  hand  and  drew 
him  from  the  house.  There  was  no  surprise  in  his 
eyes  at  my  boldness;  —  it  was  as  if  my  hand  had 
always  sought  his.  I  turned  the  key  in  the  lock, 
and  we  hurried  along  to  rehearsal.  The  brisk,  cool 
air  brought  the  cheer  back  into  his  eyes,  though  it 
never  was  quite  the  same  between  us.  The  old 
house  with  its  memories  had  held  out  empty  arms 
and  called  to  us  both  to  fill  them. 


62  Lofee   3n 


CHAPTER  XII. 

In  our  modest  little  home  everything  was  astir 
for  the  next  two  or  three  days.  I  had  told  Mr. 
Alexander  that  I  would  go  with  him.  Miss  Court- 
land  was  still  very  ill,  her  life  was  even  in  danger. 
They  were  all  very  kind  to  me,  and  Mr.  Knowles 
had  arranged  it  so  that  I  could  wait  and  join  them 
in  New  York  three  days  after  their  departure,  as 
their  time  at  The  Bijou  did  not  begin  until  the 
Monday  night  following. 

Our  cottf.ge  was  always  kept  scrupulously  clean, 
but  during  these  last  days  disorder  reigned,  and 
when  Mrs.  Aiken  dropped  in  one  morning  dismay 
was  written  on  our  faces,  for  there  was  a  wilder- 
ness of  skirts  and  petticoats  about,  undergoing  the 
looking  over  for  rents,  while  dresses  hung  upon 
chairs  waiting  inspection.  How  simple  they  looked 
in  this  new  reflection  of  the  great  city.  My  mother 
was  quite  in  a  daze  how  to  change  the  utter  sim- 
plicity of  their  cut  and  outline,  so  as  not  to  draw 
unfriendly  glances  upon  me. 

In  the  midst  of  our  trouble  stood  Mrs.  Aiken, 
— the  same  tall,  well-built  woman  with  the  glossy 
black  hair  drawn  back  from  her  high  forehead. 
The  primness  of  outline  was  there,  too;  but  the 
restlessness  of  the  eyes  was  gone  and  a  light  shone 
in  them,  a  tenderness  that  caused  me  to  put  my 


Cf)e  fflleatting 63 

hand  in  hers  and  lead  her  near  the  fire,  to  the  chair, 
that  stood  empty  there. 

"You  find  us  in  confusion,  Mrs.  Aiken,"  said  my 
mother,  "but  when  a  young  girl  leaves  the  home 
nest  for  the  first  time,  you  know  what  it  means,  I 
am  sure." 

The  fire  blazed  cheerily  and  sent  strange  shadows 
into  the  corners  of  the  room.  Lines  of  transfigur- 
ing light  lay  on  the  black  hair  of  the  woman  sitting 
in  the  fire-glow,  and  sent  a  deeper  shadow  over  the 
eyes.  They  glowed  with  strange  tenderness,  as 
they  sought  my  mother's,  mutely  asking  for  the 
privilege  of  closer  converse. 

"I  know  your  heart  is  sad,  my  dear  lady,"  she 
said,  and  lingered  over  the  words  lovingly  as  if 
unaccustomed  to  speak,  with  the  sweet  nearness 
of  love  in  the  accent.  They  were  almost  strange 
words,  one  could  feel,  seldom  uttered  and  the  ques- 
tion came  slowly,  with  the  hesitancy  of  strange- 
ness upon  it. 

A  smile  was  in  my  mother's  eyes,  and,  though 
they  were  sad,  I  knew  by  a  firm  tightness  about  her 
mouth,  that  she  meant  the  last  days  should  be  joy- 
ous ones  for  me,  at  any  cost  to  herself.  I  must 
carry  strength  in  my  heart,  into  my  new  life,  and 
she  knew  that  happiness  was  strength. 

"I  know  the  ache  in  your  heart,  Mrs.  Grier," 
went  on  our  caller,  "the  hungry  lonely  ache  that 
will  grow  hungrier,  as  the  days  pass  into  weeks  and 
then  into  months  and  years." 

Tears  were  rushing  to  my  eyes,  and  my  mother 
hastened  to  stir  up  the  logs  upon  the  hearth  to  dis- 
pel the  gloom  that  had  entered  with  her  words. 


64 Lotie   Jn 

She  held  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  as  she  con- 
tinued in  the  same  tender,  low,  sorrowful  tone  of 
voice,  "Thank  you  for  listening,  Madam,  and  now 
I  will  be  myself — the  storm  is  over.  We  will  com- 
mand the  ocean  waves  of  emotion  to  be  still." 
With  a  quick  decisive  movement  of  her  head,  as  if 
ashamed  of  the  momentary  weakness,  she  went  on, 
"Her  clothes,  Mrs.  Grier,  has  she  clothes?" 

The  question  came  so  abruptly  out  of  the  midst 
of  sadness  that  it  startled  us,  and  a  deep  red  color 
rushed  to  my  mother's  face. 

"Of  course,  my  dear  lady,  I  know  your  pride,  but 
forget  it  in  the  welfare  of  your  daughter.  I  had 
a  daughter  once,  but  she  died  on  the  eve  of  her 
eighteenth  birthday,  and  what  a  birthday  it  was  to 
have  been.  I  wasn't  a  stiff-necked,  stern  old  woman 
then,  but  full  of  the  mother-love,  and  young, — 
young  and  gay, — yes,  gay,  madam.  She  died,  and 
I  died,  too,  the  real  woman  in  me,  and  only  the  hard 
crust  was  left.  We  were  rich,  husband  and  I,  and 
my  dear  little  girl  had  many  beautiful  dresses. 
Will  you  let  your  Elsa  take  them  with  her  into  the 
world  that  she  is  about  to  enter?  I  feel  as  if  my 
dear  one  would  be  glad,  and,  oh !  it  would  mean  so 
much  to  me — and, — I  am  lonely." 

My  mother  leaned  nearer  and  laid  her  hand 
gently  upon  the  great  lady's  knee,  and  there  was 
silence  between  us.  My  heart  ached  for  the  stern 
woman  who  had  laid  bare  the  hidden  grief  of  her 
being,  but  there  was  nothing  I  could  say.  I  could 
only  stand  aside  and  wait  until  her  white  face  grew 
less  weary,  and  the  balm  of  comfort  had  come  from 


Ct)c  ftOeatiing  65 


the  unseen  ministering  ones.  I  could  not  break  in 
upon  the  holy  spell  that  the  opened  grave  of  her 
sorrow  had  cast  through  the  room.  My  mother's 
eyes  sought  strength  in  the  reddening  flame  of  the 
log  upon  the  hearth.  From  another  room  came  the 
regular  ticking  of  the  clock,  and  now  and  then  the 
creak  of  a  board  broke  the  silence.  I  studied  the 
pattern  in  the  carpet  and  outlined  it  with  the  toe 
of  my  shoe.  My  eyes  would  timidly  search  the  dis- 
tressed face,  half  hidden  behind  a  handkerchief,  held 
there  by  nerve-twitching  fingers.  At  last  it  be- 
came unbearable.  This  was  real  grief  and  it  hurt, 
as  it  always  had  hurt,  when  I  innocently  touched 
the  cords  of  my  mother's  anguish.  I  stole  silently 
out  of  the  room  into  the  kitchen. 

"Tea!  that  is  the  thing!"  I  would  make  tea,  and 
it  must  dispel  the  gloom. 

I  returned  as  soon  as  fingers  could  gather  cups 
and  saucers  and  the  fire  set  the  water  boiling. 
They  were  quietly  talking  when  I  reappeared,  and 
I  knew  my  mother  had  granted  her  prayer.  It  was 
so  like  her,  my  mother,  at  the  call  of  another's  woe 
she  could  even  forget  her  pride. 

"The  faded  muslins  can  be  put  away  now,  Elsa,"' 
she  said,  "and  won't  you  be  fine,  my  girl  ?  I  know 
the  wearing  of  the  dear  dresses  taken  from  the 
shrine  that  memory  has  kept  sweet  will  give  you 
inspiration,  and  you  will  sing  even  better,  for  the 
wearing  of  them.  Another's  hopes  and  joys  have 
gone  into  them." 

In  that  radiant  instant  I  knew  she  spoke  the 
truth.  The  golden  minutes  slipped  by  as  we  drank 


66 Lotie   3n 

our  tea.  When  Mrs.  Aiken  retied  her  bonnet 
strings  and  started  home  I  went  with  her,  and  there 
was  the  light  of  happiness  in  her  eyes.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  crust  of  hardness  had  melted  away  and 
the  gold  of  her  nature  shone  clear  and  beautiful. 
Thought  and  action  were  never  far  apart  from  her, 
and  so  she  had  insisted  upon  my  accompanying  her 
home  to  bring  the  bundle  back  immediately  that 
my  mother  might  make  necessary  changes. 

"It  was  your  singing,  child, — your  tones  haunted 
me  all  that  night  after  hearing  them,  and  when 
I  slept  toward  morning  a  voice  out  of  the  dark 
seemed  to  speak  to  me.  I  was  afraid  at  first,  then 
I  remembered  I  was  in  my  daughter's  bed-chamber, 
drawn  to  sleep  there,  that  night,  by  some  mysteri- 
ous influence.  Women  have  strange  attachments 
for  places,  especially  those  endeared  to  them  by 
love — a  carpet  often  pressed  by  loved  feet,  how  we 
care  for  and  protect  it,  child, — a  book  with  the 
leaves  turned  down  by  fingers  now  still  and  cold. 
So  I  slept  in  the  bed  where  my  dear  one's  girlish 
fancies  had  roamed  free.  Miss  Elsa,  she  spoke  to 
me  that  night  and  sent  me  to  you." 

There  was  a  motherliness  in  her  tone,  and  it 
touched  me  deeply. 

"Until  to-morrow,"  she  called  as  I  left  her,  driv- 
ing back  in  an  old  phaeton,  because  of  the  bigness 
of  the  bundle.  "I  shall  want  to  see  you  in  them, 
my  dear,"  and  she  waved  me  good-bye. 

Youth  and  happiness  were  mine  and  a  singing 
heart,  and  so  necessarily  all  the  worries  must  steal 
away.  The  dear  God  knew  my  need,  and  lo!  in 
the  passing  of  an  hour  he  had  clothed  me,  even  as 


Cf)e  aacatiing  67 


the  sparrows.  The  autumn  mists  were  rising,  and 
in  my  heart  there  grew  a  wonderful  purpose,  as  I 
was  driven  along  through  the  dimly  lighted  streets 
of  the  village. 


68  Lobe   3n 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

I  was  as  one  possessed,  as  I  held  up  dress  after 
dress  before  my  mother.  We  had  finished  our 
simple  evening  meal  and  had  carried  our  dessert 
into  the  sitting-room  to  enjoy  before  the  blazing 
logs.  The  flavor  of  cherry  tart  vanished  for  me, 
as  I  caught  sight  of  the  long  and  heavy-looking 
bundle  resting  on  a  chair  by  the  door.  The  tart 
was  not  to  be  endured,  the  big  bundle  fascinated,  so 
string  was  recklessly  cut  and  the  wrapper  torn 
away. 

"Mother!"  I  fairly  shrieked;  "look,  look  at  this 
blue  one." 

It  was  the  last  in  the  pile  of  neatly  folded  gowns, 
and  it  was  blue,  the  color  I  loved.  I  could  not 
resist  trying  it  on,  and  in  the  enthusiasm  of  youth 
I  slipped  into  my  bedroom,  spreading  the  delicate 
blue  silk  upon  a  chair,  while  I  hurriedly  pulled  but- 
tons and  ribbons  apart,  let  my  brown  cashmere  slip 
to  the  floor,  and,  stepping  out  of  it,  I  reached  for 
the  dainty  soft  silk  lovingly.  Then  I  realized  my 
hair  was  all  askew  and  something  within  would  not 
let  me  don  the  pretty  garment  in  so  untidy  a  condi- 
tion. I  drew  my  fingers  back  and  set  them  to  pull- 
ing out  the  hair  pins. 

What  a  long  time  I  spent  in  front  of  the  tiny 


Ct)c  fflleatring 69 

oval  mirror.  I  seemed  to  be  looking  into  the  eyes 
of  a  stranger,  and  I  began  to  study  each  feature 
with  deep  interest.  How  white  the  face  in  the 
glass  looked,  how  dark  the  eyes,  yet  the  lips  were 
full  and  red.  How  unlike  my  mother  was  the  coun- 
tenance reflected.  Her  skin  was  warm  and  rosy 
and  her  figure  all  grace  and  curves,  while  the  face 
staring  at  me  in  the  oval  glass  was  thin,  perhaps 
the  curves  and  grace  would  come  later,  as  angles 
often  are  the  fault  of  youth.  There  was  the  depth 
of  many  worlds  in  the  eyes,  though,  that  gazed  so 
steadily  at  me,  and  I  knew  what  lay  slumbering 
there.  It  was  a  soul  straining  to  be  free  to  take 
its  place  in  the  world  of  those  that  have  come 
through  desperate  grief  into  the  realm  of  the  beau- 
tiful, where  love  is  the  password.  I  had  chosen  my 
task  in  life,  and  I  would  reach  the  goal,  led  on  by 
the  sunbeams,  the  summer  rain,  moonlight,  and 
the  sound  of  many  waters.  'Twas  a  glimpse  into 
the  spirit  world  that  lay  in  the  eyes  reflected  in  the 
glass.  All  the  sorrow  of  life  lay  trembling  in 
their  depths,  and  all  the  courage  of  a  royal  faith 
to  endure,  shone  forth  clear  and  beautiful. 

I  shook  myself  free  from  the  giant  forces  quiv- 
ering through  me,  gently  stroking  my  face  as  if  to 
claim  it  as  my  own  once  more  and  withdrew  from 
the  spell  of  things  that  come  when  we  look  too  far 
into  realms  of  the  infinite.  With  sudden  eagerness 
I  caught  up  the  dress,  and,  with  a  swish  of  silk,  it 
was  over  my  head.  The  soft  loveliness  clung  to  my 
figure,  and  I  took  a  timid  step,  letting  it  trail 
gently  behind.  My  face  was  aglow  with  modest 
delight,  and  I  blushed,  as,  glancing  up,  I  caught 


TO Lotie   3n 

my  reflection  in  the  mirror.  It  was  becoming,  and 
my  eyes  filled  with  wonder.  I  smiled,  for  the  dress 
was  mine,  and  I  was  beautiful  in  it. 

How  shyly  I  tiptoed  to  the  door,  thinking-  to 
enter  and  surprise  my  mother  with  my  grandeur. 
She  was  still  sitting  by  the  fire-glow,  where  I  had 
left  her  finishing  the  tart.  The  room  was  wrapped 
in  an  air  of  coziness,  and  the  plate  with  the  half- 
eaten  sweet  rested  on  her  lap,  while  two  fingers  lay 
carelessly  near  where  they  had  relaxed  from  keep- 
ing in  safe  position  the  delicate  china.  She  wore 
a  plain,  dull  blue  dress,  without  a  collar,  made 
short  in  the  sleeves,  and  her  hair  was  piled  up  high 
on  her  head,  like  a  huge  coronet  of  gold.  There 
was  a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  were 
held  in  a  subtle  spell  that  she  could  not  withstand, 
and  she  stared  intently  into  the  glowing  embers. 

Softly  I  crossed  the  room,  fearful  that  she  might 
feel  my  presence  and  too  soon  be  recalled  to  her 
.surroundings.  Taking  a  quick  step  forward,  I 
reached  out  my  hands  and  one — two — three,  they 
were  over  her  dream-filled  eyes. 

"Dearie,  is  that  you?    How  you  startled  me." 

"Prepare  yourself,  mother,  dear,  you  are  to  be- 
hold your  daughter  arrayed  in  all  her  glory,  even 
as  the  Queen  of  Sheba — are  you  ready?"  and  a 
happy  little  laugh  unclasped  my  fingers.  I  came 
round  in  front  of  her  and  courtesied. 

"Do  I  please  you,  mother?" 

"How  beautiful  you  are,  Elsa,  but  you  seem  to 
have  grown,"  she  said,  rising  and  putting  the  dish 
•on  the  table,  then  walking  to  the  other  end  of  the 


QUeatring  71 

room,  she  looked  me  all  over,  her  eyes  filled  with 
love.  "I  had  no  idea  you  were  so  beautiful,"  she 
repeated. 

"I'm  not,  mother,  it's  only  the  dress.  You  know 
my  nose  is  altogether  too  long  and  my  chin  too 
short  and " 

"Hush,  Elsa,  don't  go  on  like  that — you  are  dark 
like  your  father,  you  have  his  skin,  and  there  is  a 
look  of  me  about  your  eyes — you  are  quite  like  a 
fairy  standing  there  by  the  hearth,  a  vision  of  love- 
liness that  has  floated  into  the  room,  in  orthodox 
fairy  style." 

"I  wish  I  could  creep  into  hearts  like  that,"  I 
said,  letting  the  serious  mood  have  sway  for  a 
moment.  "How  did  so  much  love  get  into  my  be- 
ing, mother?"  I  asked,  going  over  and  putting  my 
hands  on  her  shoulder. 

"Love  is  your  heritage,  Elsa,  just  love,  perfect 
and  pure.  But  come,  dearie,  let  me  look  at  you 
critically  and  see  what  changes  must  be  made,  now 
that  you  have  the  dress  on.  I  knew  this  one  would 
catch  your  attention  because  it  was  blue.  It  has 
very  good  style,  the  old  sleeves  come  back  after 
ten  years  of  banishment.  It  will  have  to  be  shor- 
tened, and  that  is  about  all." 

"Isn't  social  position  a  strange  thing,  mother?" 
I  said,  pulling  at  her  hair  as  she  knelt  on  the  floor 
to  pin  up  the  skirt. 

"How  does  it  look  to  you,  Elsa,  dear?" 

"I  hardly  know,  but  why  should  Mrs.  Aiken  live 
in  all  the  comfort  she  does  while  you  sew  and 
work  so  hard?" 

"Things  are  not  adjusted  so  unevenly,  Elsa,  as 


72 Lotie 

you  think.  I  have  known  a  love  that  stretches  over 
all  my  life,  and  I  have  you,  while  perhaps  Mrs. 
Aiken  has  never  known  the  deep  thrill  that  comes 
from  the  touch  of  love  on  the  soul,  who  knows? 
And  until  we  know,  dear,  until  the  mist  is  cleared 
away,  who  can  say  that  things  are  unevenly  meas- 
ured out  in  this  world. 

"I  hope  I  won't  become  vain,"  I  said,  as  I  slipped 
out  of  the  blue  dress,  my  thought  ever  changing. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  mother?"  I  added,  as 
I  caught  her  eyes  upon  me  and  stepped  away  from 
the  fluffiness  circling  me. 

"Of  a  blue  dress  that  I  owned  once,  child,  it 
floated  around  me  like  a  soft  gauzy  cloud,  and  I 
remember  your  father  liked  me  in  it  better  than  any 
dress  I  had.  I  used  to  put  it  on  always,  when  it 
was  cloudy  and  rainy;  it  seemed  to  bring  heaven 
right  in  through  the  rain-spattered  window  pane, 
my  dear  one,  would  say  it  made  my  eyes  seem  bluer 
than  ever,  and  he  could  read  the  truth  of  love  in 
them  more  easily." 

I  stroked  the  flushed  face  softly,  sitting  down 
on  the  floor  beside  her  in  childish  fashion.  What 
children  we  were  and  how  we  did  love  to  talk  and 
theorize  about  things.  We  had  always  lived  in  this 
unconventional  way — she,  sometimes  talking  quite 
beyond  my  years,  but  I  caught  much  of  life  in  her 
words.  The  darkness  had  gradually  parted  before 
my  vision,  and  the  daylight  of  understanding  swept 
over  me  as  the  days  of  my  youth  lengthened.  As 
I  stood  now  upon  the  threshold  of  womanhood  the 
path  of  my  life  stretched  before  me,  illuminated 
with  a  light  that  was  alive  as  with  a  dear  presence, 


Clje  QUeatring  73 

which  I  could  crush  close  against  my  heart.  Would 
I  ever  forget  these  last  days  in  our  nest  of  a  home  ? 
No — no — they  would  follow  me  everywhere,  I 
knew  that,  and  I  laughed  at  our  position  on  the 
floor — laughed  for  gladness  that  these  last  days 
should  be  so  full  of  sweetness  and  tender  talks. 


74 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  desolation  that  swept  over  me  as  I  lifted 
my  foot  to  the  step  of  the  car,  that  was  to  bear  me 
away  into  the  great  unknown  lying  beyond  the  vil- 
lage, seemed  at  that  moment  unendurable,  and  yet 
the  words,  "Oh!  I  am  so  happy!"  kept  singing 
themselves  through  my  heart,  almost  proclaiming 
that  desolation,  false, — God  knows  it  was  not — we 
are  so  contradictory  in  our  natures — we  poor  strug- 
gling ones.  I  was  happy,  and  I  was  not  happy,  the 
green  trees  and  the  exquisite  day,  the  unknown 
drawing  me  on  and  on,  did  fierce  battle  with  the 
emotions  struggling  in  my  breast.  Another  day 
and  I  would  be  alone  upon  the  highway  of  life,  with 
no  prospect  of  seeing  my  dear  one, — the  mother 
whose  love  had  so  sheltered  and  protected  me.  But 
that  was  to-morrow  and  I  must  live  the  to-day — 
and  what  was  my  to-day?  My  mind  flew  back  to 
the  last  hour  together — the  tender  lingering  of  her 
arm  about  me  and  the  gentleness  of  her  fingers  as 
they  caressed  my  face,  like  the  action  of  one  blind 
who  would  impress  more  closely  the  dear  outline 
of  loved  features.  Was  it  over,  the  day  of  my 
youth,  so  happily  spent  in  the  cottage  home,  hid 
away  in  a  village?  I  impulsively  gathered  those 
white  fingers  in  my  hand  and  pressed  them  to  my 


Cfre  &Heatring 


"Don't,  mother  —  don't  trace  the  loneliness  over 
my  face,  help  me  or  I  just  cannot  go." 

She  was  strong  of  will,  my  mother,  and  my  ap- 
peal was  answered  —  those  last  few  minutes  to- 
gether before  I  entered  the  bus  —  that  was  to  take 
me  to  the  station,  in  those  last  few  minutes  she 
bravely  lifted  the  lonely  veil  that  had  almost  man- 
tled me  and  my  vision  cleared.  We  said  our  good- 
bye, there  on  the  tiny  porch.  At  the  very  end,  as 
she  held  me  at  arm's  length  and  looked  at  me 
proudly  I  grew  pale,  it  was  torture,  this  first  part- 
ing with  her,  and  I  was  frightened  at  what  might 
lie  beyond  the  enfolding  of  her  arms. 

"Elsa,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "there  is  nothing* 
to  fear  —  out  there  —  he  is  in  the  world  of  people  — 
your  father  —  nothing  will  harm  you  there,  in  his 
world." 

"But,  mother,"  I  cried,  "I  only  want  you." 

Yet  her  words  comforted,  and,  as  our  eyes  met 
for  the  last  time,  a  deep,  deep  richness  of  love  lay  in 
their  depths;  a  love  that  I  knew  could  surmount 
all  distance,  that  would  be  near  me  at  every  turn 
of  the  road,  —  out  tJicre.  The  clumsy  bus  backed 
up  to  the  walk  and  I  stumbled  in,  carrying  with  me 
that  last  wonderful  look  in  her  eyes.  There  was  a 
hush  over  everything,  only  the  loud  call  of  the 
driver  to  his  horses  broke  the  quiet.  It  sounded 
shrill,  harsh,  and  cruel,  breaking  the  perfect  har-  f 
mony,  into  which  we  had  been  lifted. 

"Get  up,"  he  lazily  called  to  the  scrambling 
beasts,  as  they  tugged  at  the  huge  wheels.  Slam 
went  the  door,  the  trees  intervened  between  us,  then- 


76 Lotie   3n 

the  cottage  and  my  mother  were  lost  to  view  by  a 
quick  turn  of  the  road. 

Mrs.  Aiken  was  at  the  station,  and  as  I  put  my 
foot  on  the  step  of  the  train  she  whispered,  "Don't 
worry,  child,  about  your  mother — we'll  look  after 
her." 

There  was  only  time  to  thank  her  with  my  eyes, 
for  the  engine  was  snorting  restlessly  and  the  steam 
puffed  irregularly,  rising  to  the  sky  in  lacy  waves. 
I  had  not  wished  my  mother's  farewell  in  the  un- 
familiar waiting-room,  but  there  was  a  magic  cur- 
rent of  love  between  us,  and  her  look  seemed  upon 
me  as  I  felt  the  gradual  moving  of  wheels  carrying 
me  along.  A  strange  peace  settled  over  me  while 
I  buried  my  face  in  the  cool,  sweet  blossoms  Mrs. 
Aiken  had  pushed  into  my  hands  at  the  moment 
the  porter  hurried  me  aboard.  It  was  a  peace  that 
would  never  leave  me,  but  hover  over  and  under 
and  about  me,  exquisite  as  the  echo  of  a  song  that 
comes  to  one  from  some  memory  shrine  in  the 
heart. 

My  first  journey  in  a  train! — surely  I  was  a 
country  lass,  and  a  sudden  shyness  seized  me. 
Would  others  know  that  I  had  never  before  felt 
the  quivering  motion  of  the  train,  never  known 
what  it  meant  to  fly  through  meadow  land,  past 
the  mighty  prairies  or  span  a  slow  running  river, 
entangled  mid  the  bushes  and  thick  underbrush  of 
some  forest?  My  satchel  lay  at  my  feet  with  bulg- 
ing sides,  and  the  flowers  were  tightly  clasped  in 
my  hands.  How  rich  I  felt  with  the  sleek  brown 
satchel,  and  then  there  was  my  trunk  so  closely 
packed  with  every  possible  dainty  mystery  of  a 


77 


girl's  wardrobe.  The  dresses  folded  so  tenderly 
away,  and  fitted  into  the  narrow  trays  so  carefully. 
I  could  see  the  shimmering-  laces  and  delicate  colors 
flit  by  me,  mingling  strangely  with  the  autumn 
tints  outside  the  car  window. 

Gradually  I  was  at  ease  in  my  new  surroundings. 
Too  much  of  my  mother's  heart  was  in  the  great 
world,  not  to  have  accustomed  me  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  life  there.  We  had  walked  the  streets  of 
New  York  many  times  in  a  cozy  evening  by  the 
fire,  and  she,  ever  eloquent  with  word-pictures,  had 
made  it  all  very  real.  Soon  I  would  know  —  how 
real.  The  car  I  was  in  was  nearly  empty,  for  sev- 
eral hours,  then  gradually  each  seat  was  filled.  My 
thoughts  were  too  busy  to  wander  idly  along  the 
aisle  of  the  car,  in  search  of  sympathy.  Many 
voices  spoke  to  me,  and  the  breaking  of  home  ties 
made  me  shun  companionship  and  seek  through  the 
narrow  window,  to  keep  in  view  the  trees  and  sky 
that  were  the  same  even  as  the  distance  from  home 
lengthened.  Presently  I  would  be  far  beyond  the 
dear  farm  land,  the  peaceful  scenery,  and  the  glori- 
ous breath  of  the  out  door  of  the  country  would 
be  lost  amid  the  tall  buildings  of  a  city. 

The  hours  of  the  afternoon  crept  away,  and  as 
we  were  carried  past  town  and  village  nestling  far 
back  in  hill  or  forest,  we  gradually  came  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  river  I  had  loved  and  longed  to  see  — 
the  Hudson.  At  last  we  reached  its  banks  —  and 
how  splendid  it  was,  illuminated  by  the  setting  sun, 
stretching  its  golden  light  across  the  rolling  blue 
of  the  waves  that  had  the  sheen  of  satin  upon  them. 


78 Lone   3n 

In  my  enthusiasm  I  raised  the  window,  and,  lean- 
ing in  my  usual  way  on  my  elbows,  I  drank  in  all 
the  glorious  dying  sunlight.  The  air  was  full  of 
dreams,  and  I  could  see  love  upon  the  waters  as 
we  skirted  the  river's  edge. 

How  it  appealed  to  me — the  gentle  ebb  and  flow 
of  that  fascinating  river — not  as  the  ocean  would 
fascinate,  I  felt  sure  of  that.  I  longed  to  see  the 
ocean  with  a  passionate  longing  I  could  not  ex- 
plain. I  wanted  to  plunge  my  whole  body  into  its 
great  arms  and  feel  its  waves  engulf  me ;  the  ocean 
was  a  part  of  my  being,  but  there  was  peace  along 
the  river  bank.  Here  was  a  setting  for  a  love 
dream,  with  no  undercurrent  of  suffering. 

At  once  the  face  of  Charles  Grey  rose  before 
me,  and  my  cheeks  flamed  with  a  dull  red  color 
spreading  quickly  to  my  temples.  The  cool  river 
zephyrs  played  over  my  face,  and  with  my  chin  in 
my  two  hands  I  dreamed  on.  He  was  to  meet  me 
when  the  train  pulled  into  New  York.  A  sudden 
fear  seized  me.  If  he  shouldn't  come,  or  if — that 
"if,"  quite  unnerved  me,  and  I  let  the  window  down 
and  worked  myself  into  a  nervous  fret  fulness  that 
brought  a  dull  ache  to  my  head. 

It  was  just  an  intermittent  pain  at  first,  now  and 
then  gripping  me,  but  it  grew  steadily  worse  as  we 
whirled  along.  The  sun  was  melting  away  in  the 
blue  clouds,  and  I  fought  bravely  with  the  treach- 
erous pains  that  darted  through  my  temples.  I 
had  kept  myself  up  to  an  unusually  high  tension 
until  now,  but  nerves  would  stand  no  more  and 
had  rebelled.  At  last  I  must  yield — let  them  relax 


Cfre  leaning  79 


and  find  rest.  I  loosened  the  collar  of  my  dress, 
took  off  my  hat,  closed  my  eyes,  shut  myself  away 
in  the  silence  and  slept,  —  slept  until  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  seen  but  darkness  from  the  window.  The 
porter  passed  as  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  I  asked 
him  how  much  longer  it  was. 

"Just  an  hour,  miss." 

How  quickly  the  time  had  flown  by,  and  how 
near  I  had  been,  after  all,  to  the  city  life  the  Pro- 
fessor had  loved.  I  smoothed  back  stray  locks,  and 
an  instantaneous  desire  to  look  well  was  upon  me 
as  I  followed  a  lady  and  her  baby  to  the  dress- 
ing room  with  my  satchel  in  my  hand.  She  was  a 
tired-looking  woman,  frail  and  dispirited,  but  the 
baby  was  round-cheeked  and  big-eyed,  with  won- 
derful yellow  curls.  I  held  out  my  arms  to  him  im- 
pulsively, as  she  was  trying  to  wash  his  face. 

"Let  me  hold  him  while  you  do  it,"  I  said. 

"Thank  you,  miss,  I  want  him  all  clean  and  nice 
—  to  please  his  father.  He  hasn't  seen  him,  miss, 
since  he  was  a  tiny  baby  in  long  clothes.  We  lost 
what  little  money  we  had,  and  I  had  to  stay  back 
there  on  the  ranch  with  my  folks,  while  he  went  on 
ahead,  to  make  a  home  for  us.  It's  been  a  long 
wait,  but  it's  over  now,  and  O,  miss,  do  you  think 
he  looks  fine?  I  made  the  coat  myself  all  by  hand," 
and  she  held  it  out  for  my  inspection.  It  was  a 
rough  goods,  but  each  stitch  had  been  put  in  care- 
fully, and  it  hung  in  warm  folds  around  the  strug- 
gling baby  in  my  arms. 

"And  his  hair,  miss  —  that  is  the  worst.  My  man 
don't  like  curls  on  a  boy,  and  it  will  curl,  but  I  just 
could  not  cut  them  off,  could  you?" 


so Lotte   3tn 

The  soft  little  ringlets  of  gold  touched  my  face, 
and  I  knew  I  could  not  have  cut  them,  either.  I 
told  her  so,  and  she  quickly  twisted  them  around  her 
finger  while  I  held  him,  as  if  my  word  about  them 
was  a  sufficient  excuse  for  their  existence. 

"We  must  soon  be  there  now,  and  O,  I  thank 
you,  miss.  I  never  could  have  gotten  us  both  ready 
if  you  hadn't  helped,  and  I  want  to  look  nice,  too 
— for  him,"  and  her  eyes  were  luminous  as  she 
left  me  alone  to  get  myself  in  order. 

My  fingers  were  awkward  with  the  bumping  and 
jarring  of  the  train,  and  I  had  just  pinned  on  my 
hat  when  I  felt  the  slowing  up  of  the  wheels  and 
the  gradual  diminishing  of  speed.  Then  came  a 
jolt,  a  sudden  stop,  and  we  were  in  the  gateway 
of  the  great  city.  The  porter  had  taken  my  bag 
and  forged  ahead,  and  I  followed  in  line  with  the 
rest.  The  tired  mother,  with  the  baby,  was  just  in 
front  of  me,  and  I  was  glad  of  that,  because  I 
wanted  a  glimpse  of  the  man  who  had  gone  before 
to  make  a  home.  There  he  was — her  man — both 
arms  outstretched  as  she  stood  on  the  lower  step 
of  the  car  with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  He  had  a 
round,  kind  face  like  the  baby's,  and  the  little 
woman  was  quite  lost  in  his  ample  embrace.  He 
could  care  for  her,  he  was  so  big  and  strong,  and 
I  was  glad. 

I  had  been  so  absorbed  in  this  couple,  meeting 
after  many  days,  that  I  had  forgotten  I  was  alone 
in  New  York  and  no  one  was  there  to  greet  me.  I 
took  the  satchel  from  the  porter  and  bravely  held 
the  tears  back,  hardly  knowing  who  it  was  I  ex- 


C[)e  ftlleatring  81 

pected  to  meet  me.  I  had  just  taken  a  firm  hold  of 
my  satchel  and  was  mingling  in  the  crowd  when  a 
hand  touched  mine  on  the  handle.  I  knew  as  I 
raised  my  eyes  that  I,  too,  had  found  protection  in 
the  strong  Kand  clasp  of  Charles  Grey, 


82  Lotje   3n 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Most  of  the  company  had  sought  rooms  in  a 
quiet  hotel  in  Forty-second  Street  between  Broad- 
way and  Fifth  Avenue,  and  it  had  been  agreed  be- 
tween my  mother  and  Mr.  Alexander  that  I  should 
come  direct  to  him  there,  that  I  might  have  the 
companionship  of  his  wife.  My  mother  liked  the 
idea,  and  so  it  was  here  that  Charles  Grey  brought 
me.  He  was  staying  at  the  bachelor  quarters  of  a 
friend,  and  as  we  turned  the  corner  off  Fifth  Avenue 
into  the  less  pretentious  side  street,  he  pointed 
ahead  to  a  tall  brown  brick  building  several  yards 
away.  It  was  at  an  angle  from  my  destination, 
and  he  minutely  described  the  location  of  certain 
front  windows  that  were  his,  whence  he  could  see 
other  windows  in  the  hotel  where  I  was  to  stay. 
After  earnestly  describing  locations  he  looked  at 
me,  and,  strangely  enough,  I  was  impelled  to  glance 
at  him  at  the  same  moment.  As  our  eyes  met,  they  . 
said  what  lips  would  not  have  dared  to  utter — so  -' 
bold  are  eyes.  They  reveal  the  hidden  treasures  of 
our  hearts  and  open  the  door  for  kindred  ones  to 
enter  into  the  holy  of  holies,  where  even  angels 
hesitate  to  tread.  My  heart  warmed  to  him  as 
we  parted  at  the  entrance  to  the  hotel  where  he 
relinquished  my  satchel  to  a  waiting  porter. 


Clje  Pairing 83 

"Have  you  had  supper?"  he  asked,  as  he  held  my 
hand.  "Have  a  bite  with  me,"  he  urged  impul- 
sively, tightening  his  fingers  as  they  clasped  mine. 

"I  can  get  a  taste  of  something  here,  can't  I?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "but  don't  you  want  to  share 
mine  with  me?" 

"Not  to-night,  I  am  tired  and  my  head  is  in  a 
whirl.  Thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Grey,  for  meeting 
me.  I  should  have  been  trampled  under  foot  with- 
out you." 

As  I  finished  speaking  the  swinging  door  opened 
and  the  round  cheery  face  of  Mr.  Alexander  faced 
me. 

"Well,  my  dear  child,  you've  come.  Break  away, 
Grey,  and  I'll  take  charge  of  our  traveler  now." 

We  went  to  the  desk,  and  a  tall,  consumptive- 
looking  man  handed  a  boy  a  key,  and,  following 
him,  I  entered  the  elevator. 

"I  won't  go  up,  Miss  Elsa,  but  I'll  send  my  wife 
in  to  see  that  you  are  comfortable." 

Soon  I  was  stowed  away  in  a  little  corner  room 
and  the  door  was  closed  upon  the  bell  boy,  who  had 
settled  my  satchel  on  the  table  in  a  very  business- 
like manner,  and  then  drawled  out : 

"Want  ice  water,  miss?" 

A  terrible  loneliness  enshrouded  me.  It  was 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  from  the  window 
a  million  toy  lights  gleamed  from  tall  spires.  They 
looked  almost  like  stars,  that  had  dropped  from 
heaven  to  the  buildings  below.  What  a  world  of 
brick  and  stone.  No  nature  here,  only  the  sky 
above.  But  the  dear  sky  hovered  as  a  canopy  at 


84 Lotte   Jn 

least,  and  if  there  were  not  trees  to  wave  and 
beckon  me  as  I  eagerly  searched  the  out  doors  from 
my  window,  I  could  still  feel  the  soft  breezes  on 
my  cheek  though  they  were  not  laden  with  the 
sweet  fragrance  of  mingling  blossoms. 

The  street  was  miles  below,  and  how  tiny  seemed 
the  moving  figures  of  men  and  women.  There  was 
a  difference  in  the  look  of  everything  here.  The 
little  square  window  pane  at  home  held  no  such 
wonders  as  these.  There  the  crickets  would  be 
chirping,  now  and  then  a  farm  wagon  would  hurry 
past,  the  dust  would  fly  and  cloud  the  soft  air  for  a 
moment,  but  here,  there  were  faces  passing  to  and 
fro  like  swarms  of  bees.  An  uneasiness  was  begin- 
ning to  take  hold  of  me,  and  I  shifted  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  my  fingers  began  beating  a  tattoo 
on  the  window  pane. 

But  I  could  not  stir,  the  greatest  of  all  things  was 
happening.  I  was  getting  my  first  glimpse  of  New 
York  and  the  enthusiasm  of  the  artist  awoke  in  my 
heart.  I  could  always  see  pictures  in  everything, 
and  I  caught  my  breath  at  the  bigness  of  the  scene 
that  was  spread  before  me.  'Twas  a  live  canvas 
and  when  was  I  to  be  painted  in, — was  I  to  be  one 
of  the  struggling  ones?  Would  I  pose  as  Tragedy 
and  lay  my  heart  tortured  and  scarred  before  the 
God  that  held  life  and  love  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand? 

Of  a  sudden  my  heart  yearned  for  the  sunny 
room  of  our  cottage  and  the  low  voice  of  my 
mother.  As  my  heart  yearned,  tears  blotted  out  the 
tall  buildings,  and  there  was  a  blur  over  every- 
thing. I  was  beginning  to  wish  I  had  let  Charles 


Cfie  ftOeatring  85 


Grey  stay,  and,  following  the  thought,  my  eyes 
sought  the  brown  brick  where  his  window  opened. 
Did  life  look  to  him  from  the  square  pane  as  it  did 
to  me?  Was  he  wondering  even  as  I,  where  he 
would  be  in  the  picture?  A  gentle  knock  sounded 
at  the  door,  and  I  turned  from  the  window  quickly, 
glad  to  get  away  from  the  gloomy  thoughts  that 
were  beginning  to  rush  in  upon  me.  A  turn  of  the 
knob  revealed  the  kindly  face  of  Mrs.  Alexander. 

"My  poor  child,  you  are  all  in  the  dark,  and  that 
is  so  dreary." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  it,  —  I  was  so  lost  in  the  view 
outside.  It  is  all  wonderful  and  new  to  me.  But 
I  believe  it  is  time  for  the  lights  now.  I  was  be- 
ginning to  see  home,  out  there  in  the  dark,"  I  an- 
swered. "Do  you  know  where  the  light  is,  Mrs. 
Alexander?"  I  asked,  "I  didn't  notice  when  I  came 
in,  and  it  is  quite  dark  now." 

She  found  the  button  and  pressed  it,  and  in  a 
moment  we  were  flooded  in  a  glare  of  brilliancy. 

"You  have  never  been  in  a  city  before,  my  dear?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  "and  I  am  lonely  now  for  the 
first  time,  a  sort  of  terror  at  the  bigness  out  there 
was  about  to  engulf  me  when  your  knock  recalled 
me.  Sit  down,  won't  you?"  I  urged.  We  were 
still  both  standing  by  the  door. 

"Take  off  your  things  and  I  will." 

"Why,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  my  hat  and 
jacket  —  yes,  and  gloves,  too  —  but  sit  down,  and  I'll 
remember  that  I  am  at  home  here  now,  not  just 
calling,"  and  I  laughed  at  my  absent-mindedness. 

"Just  think,   I  had  even  forgotten  the   hat  pin 


86 Lone   3n 

that  is  still  pulling  at  some  stray  hairs,  as  it  has 
been  since  leaving  the  train. 

"Won't  you  call  me  Elsa?"  I  begged,  a  sudden 
wave  of  friendliness  toward  her  kindly  face  pos- 
sessing me,  "then  I'll  feel  less  alone,  I  know." 

"Elsa! — 'tis  a  beautiful  name  and  won't  be  hard 
to  say.  Are  you  going  to  use  it  on  the  stage?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said  as  I  pulled  out  the  pin  that 
had  entangled  itself  so  awkwardly  in  my  hair.  "It's 
off  now,  and  I  feel  more  at  home  already — isn't  it  a 
funny  little  hat?"  I  cried,  holding  it  up. 

"Such  an  odd  turn  to  the  rim,  but  quite  the  style 
in  the  country  and  guaranteed  to  be  the  proper 
shape  and  hue,"  and  again  I  laughed. 

"Have  you  had  anything  to  eat,  that's  the  ques- 
tion now,  I  think.  But  I  won't  ask,  I'll  just  order 
something  while  you  are  getting  acclimated, — that's 
a  good  word  to  express  it, — hey,  my  dear?"  and  she 
bustled  about  in  a  way  that  made  me  feel  I  had 
known  her  always. 

The  room  was  plain,  painfully  unattractive  after 
the  delicate  furnishing  of  my  bed-chamber  at  home, 
but  I  rather  liked  the  round  dark  mission  table  and 
the  little  desk  by  the  window.  I  silently  promised 
myself  to  write  a  long,  long  letter  home  before  I 
slept. 

A  narrow,  white  iron  bed  stood  in  the  corner,  a 
rocker  and  two  other  chairs  and  a  bureau  completed 
the  furnishing  of  the  room.  I  shyly  watched  Mrs. 
Alexander  in  the  glass  of  the  dresser  as  I  smoothed 
back  my  hair.  She  was  a  little  woman  with  a  look 
of  home  about  her  that  I  liked,  and  I  was  glad  she 
would  call  me  Elsa.  We  chatted  merrily  together 


Cfie  KJeatring  87 

while  I  nibbled  at  chops  and  biscuits  and  a  generous 
piece  of  pie,  and  when  the  last  mouthful  had  disap- 
peared she  rose  to  depart. 

"I  really  must  go,  Miss  Elsa,"  she  said.  "I  have 
a  hungry  man  in  there,  a  man  with  an  appetite,  and 
you  know,  and  if  you  don't,  heed  what  I  say — look 
after  his  appetite  when  he  appears,  my  dear." 

Why  should  I  blush?  But  I  did,  and  I  caught 
the  faintest  sign  of  a  merry  twinkle  in  her  eye  as 
she  turned  toward  the  door. 

"Now  put  on  a  loose  wrapper,  child,  and  make 
yourself  comfortable  if  you  are  going  to  write,  as 
I  know  you  will.  It  isn't  so  far  back  that  I  have 
forgotten  my  first  night  away  from  my  home  folks, 
and  I  remember  I  sat  up  most  of  the  night  writ- 
ing, but  you  mustn't  do  that.  We  have  rooms  close 
to  you,  right  next  door,  and  if  you  get  frightened 
just  rap  on  the  wall  and  I'll  come  right  in." 

I  thanked  her  and  nodded  my  good  night.  I  was 
glad  to  be  alone  again  and  yet  grateful  that  she 
had  come  to  help  me  live  that  first  awful  lonely  mo- 
ment, which  had  swept  over  me  at  the  sight  of  the 
many  high  buildings  and  the  pavement  so  far  below 
my  window.  The  door  had  hardly  closed  when  the 
porter  brought  my  trunk.  It  was  like  the  coming 
of  a  friend,  that  square  brown  trunk.  As  I  turned 
the  key  in  the  door  I  shut  the  world  out,  and  my- 
self in,  to  think  about  everything  all  over  again,  and 
I  was  glad  to  be  shut  in  alone. 

I  opened  the  trunk  eagerly  and  laid  my  night 
apparel  ready  on  the  bed,  and,  unbuttoning  my 
dress,  slipped  into  a  wrapper,  then  settled  myself  at 
the  little  desk  to  tell  it  all  to  her,  back  there  in  the 


quiet  village.  I  knew  she  was  doing  the  same  thing, 
and  that  our  messages  would  pass  each  other. 

Was  she  sewing  as  she  had  been  that  other  rest- 
less night?  And  would  she  seek  the  picture  now, 
as  then?  An  understanding  of  her  loneliness  came 
as  I  waited,  pen  in  hand,  eyes  following  the  pattern 
on  the  lace  curtains.  But  her  memories  would  be 
there  and  I  would  write  often,  I  knew  that. 

"Mother,"  I  whispered,  "I  am  with  you  in 
thought,  and  I  want  you  to  know  it." 

I  closed  my  eyes,  and  there  in  the  silence  I  felt 
she  heard  and  was  content.  It  had  not  been  a 
mistake,  my  coming.  I  was  not  drifting  aimlessly 
about,  but  watched  over  by  a  love  that  had  never 
failed  me  and  never  would,  as  I  would  never  fail 
it.  I  had  to  cuddle  very  far  under  the  covers  that 
first  night,  for  I  felt  exceedingly  small  in  the  cor- 
ner room,  so  far  above  the  dear  earth  below;  but 
I  was  tired  and  soon  slept  in  spite  of  the  strangeness 
of  everything — slept  and  found  my  mother's  arms 
in  the  lullaby-land  where  the  fairies  that  put  us  to 
sleep  carried  me. 


Cf)C  Kleafcing  89 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"Well,"  said  Wilbur  Knowles,  as  he  rushed  into 
rehearsal  the  morning  of  the  day  I  was  to  make  my 
appearance  in  a  New  York  theatre.  "Well,  it  is 
ludicrous  that  the  whole  company  must  sit  around 
and  wait  for  those  blasted  stage  hands.  Gad !  but 
I'd  like  to  put  the  whole  beastly  union  in  the  sweat 
box  and  see  how  they'd  like  this  nerve  racking  busi- 
ness." 

We  were  to  have  a  full  stage  setting,  and  we  had 
been  sitting  on  boxes  and  odd  chairs  since  ten  o'clock 
and  it  was  now  past  eleven,  while  he  had  skirmished 
around  for  the  property  men  to  get  things  going. 

"Say,  Grey,  let's  do  it  ourselves,"  and  he  jerked 
off  his  coat  and  Grey  and  the  rest  of  the  men  fol- 
lowed suit,  and  soon  it  began  to  look  as  if  we  would 
get  a  rehearsal  after  all. 

We  knew  our  lines  and  were  well  up  in  the  busi- 
ness, for  we  had  been  working  faithfully,  so  the 
rehearsal  proceeded  without  further  interruptions, 
and  Mr.  Knowles'  nerves  gradually  settled  into 
something  like  calmness.  He  was  a  very  nervous 
man  and  seldom  attained  the  perfect  freedom  of  a 
serene  condition.  He  was  all  over  the  place  gen- 
erally, especially  when  he  was  getting  his  lights  and 
shades  to  the  picture. 

I  knew  my  way  between  the  hotel  and  the  theatre, 
and  that  was  all  I  had  seen  of  New  York.  It  meant 


90 £otie   3n 

work  for  me  to  step  into  Miss  Courtland's  place 
and  do  her  part.  I  was  not  an  actress,  though  I 
loved  the  thought  of  lending  myself  to  the  portrayal 
of  life.  I  worked  hard,  taking  little  sleep,  and,  as 
Mr.  Knowles  watched  us  at  that  last  rehearsal,  I 
knew  he  had  seen  the  tired  lines  around  my  eyes. 
When  it  was  over  and  I  was  about  to  hurry  away 
he  was  by  my  side,  whispering: 

"Take  a  good  long  sleep,  Miss  Elsa,  it  will  be 
trying  business  to-night.  There  is  a  full  house,  too, 
and  I  want  you  to  make  good,  little  girl." 

As  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  hotel  I  realized  the 
full  truth  of  his  words.  I  was  weary  and  tired  all 
over.  I  threw  myself  on  the  bed  and  slept  soundly. 
When  I  awoke  a  delicious  consciousness  of  rest  lay 
over  me,  all  the  tired  feeling  was  gone.  I  stretched 
my  arms  far  above  me,  reveling  in  the  sweet  free- 
dom from  weariness.  That  first  dear  moment  of 
consciousness,  when  the  soul  returns  from  its  wan- 
derings and  again  enters  the  body,  awakening  it  to 
renewed  vigor,  is  a  wonderful  moment.  That  mo- 
ment of  awakening,  when  we  clasp  the  threads  that 
bind  us  to  this  world,  and  begin  again  the  unwind- 
ing which  sets  the  soul  free  that  it  may  soar  in 
the  beautiful  daylight  of  consciousness. 

I  had  planned  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Professor's 
studio  this  afternoon.  I  should  draw  in  the  har- 
mony of  life  and  sing  better  on  this,  my  first  ap- 
pearance as  an  actress,  after  such  a  communica- 
tion. I  had  given  the  visit  up  when  I  had  fallen 
asleep,  but  it  was  still  early.  I  felt  so  completely 
rested  that  I  decided  to  carry  out  my  plan.  In 
dressing  I  put  on  a  simple  gown  of  my  village  days, 


Cfre 


one  he  had  seen  me  wear.  It  made  me  feel  I  could 
find  him  better  in  the  strange  surroundings  of  his 
studio,  where  only  his  spirit  now  hovered. 

I  sought  the  address  on  a  little  card  written  by 
his  own  hand,  hurried  out  into  the  thoroughfare. 
It  took  me  past  Twenty-third  Street,  and  there  I  in- 
quired of  a  policeman.  He  directed  me  into  one 
street  and  to  the  right  on  another.  At  last  I  saw 
a  rather  shabby  building  ahead  of  me,  worn  and 
weary-looking,  as  I  had  been  a  few  hours  ago.  A 
small  box  of  an  elevator  took  visitors  to  and  fro. 
I  stepped  in,  and  we  slowly  crept  to  the  top,  and 
there  I  was  left  in  a  narrow  dark  hall.  I  groped 
my  way  as  the  elevator  boy  directed  and  timidly 
knocked  at  a  door  he  designated.  The  door  was 
opened  by  a  foreign-looking  man.  I  knew  I  should 
find  some  one  occupying  the  place.  I  had  carefully 
arranged  in  my  mind  what  I  should  say  to  win  me 
a  few  moments  of  silent  thought  in  the  room,  where 
so  many  bewildering  revelations  had  sought  my 
teacher,  now  cold  in  death.  But  this  individual  that 
bade  me  enter  was  fierce-looking  and  unapproach- 
able. How  could  I  persuade  him  to  my  purpose? 

I  had  never  thought  of  a  jarring  element  where 
the  Professor  could  only  have  left  harmony.  This 
new  tenant  was  enveloped  in  a  long  black  coat,  held 
a  violin  case  in  his  hand,  probably  he  was  just 
going  out,  as  his  hat  lay  ready  on  a  chair  near  by, 
and  so  my  intrusion  was  ill-timed.  But  I  had 
come  far  and  could  not  forget  what  I  had  wished 
to  gain,  so  I  sat  down  as  he  ungraciously  motioned 
me  to  do.  Neither  of  us  spoke  for  some  minutes. 
I  was  trying  to  find  a  way  to  begin,  and  he,  bound 


92 Lone   3n 

silent  by  the  strangeness  of  my  actions.  At  last  I 
drew  in  a  nervous  breath,  timidly  looked  up,  found 
two  glowing  eyes  turned  fiercely  upon  me;  'twas 
the  fierceness  of  a  nature  keenly  alive  rather  than 
an  unkindly  expression,  for  he  had  become  con- 
scious of  my  embarrassment.  The  look  gave  me 
speech,  whatever  its  character.  I  stood  up  fear- 
lessly before  him  and  waved  my  hand  around  the 
room. 

"Isn't  this  the  studio  apartment  where  Professor 
Camden  lived?"  I  almost  whispered  the  words — 
an  awe  had  crept  over  me,  for  I  felt  his  kindly  spirit 
very  near. 

"Yes — yes,  my  dear,  this  was  his  studio,  just  as 
he  left  it,  furniture  and  all." 

In  my  absorption  the  familiar  tone  of  his  address 
was  quite  lost,  and  I  listened,  my  face  full  of  eager- 
ness as  he  continued: 

"I  had  a  studio  farther  down  the  hall  when  he 
was  here,  but  I  bought  his  furnishings  and  took  his 
lease  when  he  died." 

"Oh!  isn't  it  beautiful  that  you  could?  He  was 
such  an  inspired  one !"  I  cried.  ''His  genius  revealed 
truth  for  truth's  sake.  He  wandered  through  his 
day  here,  like  a  spirit  straight  from  the  world  of 
harmony  and  peace,  and  was  not  bewildered  by  the 
tumult  and  disorder  where  he  walked,  but  drew  a 
pale  veil  of  beauty  over  the  imperfection  in  the  val- 
ley, where  he  found  himself.  Those  whose  fingers 
have  touched  his,  can  dream  dreams  of  perfection, 
catch  fragmentary  glimpses  of  a  dim,  mystic  light, 
that  is  slowly  rising  to  clear  our  vision,  turning 
anguish  and  sorrow  into  a  God  of  love  that  is  being 


SUeatung  93 

shaped  out  of  the  mist  and  darkness  where  we  grope, 
even  as  the  dear  Professor." 

I  had  forgotten  my  listener  as  I  spoke — surely 
the  spirit  of  my  teacher  was  near  me  for  all  timidity 
left  me  as  we  conversed.  Ease  of  speech  came  to 
us  both,  and  a  soft  graciousness  spread  over  his 
countenance,  replacing  the  forbidding  fierceness  of 
his  reception. 

"You  are  new  to  New  York?"  he  questioned, 
leaning  toward  me  and  relinquishing  the  violin  case. 

I  looked  at  him  startled.  Had  I  so  quickly  ex- 
posed my  village  rearing? 

"I  have  been  here  only  four  days,"  I  answered. 
"But  why  do  you  ask?  Do  I  wear  a  village  garb? 
To  think  they  told  me  this  costume  was  the  latest 
cut!"  and  I  laughed.  "That  I  should  be  so  taken 
in !"  I  added,  and  I  met  his  look  freely.  That  laugh 
and  simple  confidence  established  a  quick  friendship 
between  us,  at  least  he  made  it  serve  such  an  end. 

"Do  you  want  me  really  to  tell  you  why  I  asked  ?" 
he  said,  leaning  still  nearer,  his  elbow  on  his  knee, 
his  keen  eyes  riveted  upon  me. 

"Yes,  oh,  do !"  I  urged ;  "the  knowledge  may  keep 
me  from  further  exposure,  and  I  don't  want  to  heap 
ridicule  upon  the  village  I  call  home." 

My  face  was  full  of  mirth  at  such  disaster  to  a 
nobody  from  nowhere.  Of  course  he  could  not  see 
how  amusing  the  thought  was,  so  I  had  my  fun  all 
to  myself. 

"After  a  while  I'll  tell  you.  Take  a  look  around 
the  studio  now,  and  let  us  speak  of  the  little  I  know 
about  your  Professor." 

iWe  chatted  on  over  the  quaint  studio ;  here  were 


94 Hone   3n 

pictures  of  the  old  masters,  busts  of  especially  loved 
poets,  and  between  the  windows  stood  the  piano.  In- 
visible fingers  drew  me  to  it,  and  my  hands  sought 
the  white  keyboard  impulsively. 

"May  I  sing  in  here  just  once?"  I  cried,  and  mar- 
veled at  my  boldness.  He  was  sitting  in  the  far 
corner  of  the  room  now,  and  silently  nodded — his 
eyes  expressing  their  consent  in  a  new  language  to 
me,  but  one  in  which  I  felt  no  interest,  so  absorbed 
was  I  in  a  deeper  emotion.  Once  more  my  lips 
framed  the  tender  words  of  Tosti's  "Good-by,"  as 
they  did  on  that  other  day.  Oh,  such  a  peace,  such 
utter  oblivion  descended  upon  me  as  I  sang,  that  I 
forgot  my  surroundings. 

The  strange,  strange  studio,  the  tempestuous  man 
sitting  in  the  dimness  were  as  nothing  to  me.  I 
was  back  in  the  old  brick  house,  let  furnished.  Once 
more  I  was  waiting  for  my  mother's  summons  to 
that  other  room  where  he  lay  dying — Professor 
Camden — and  now  I  was  here  fingering  the  keys  of 
his  piano,  sending  a  quiver  through  his  beloved 
studio,  the  words  of  a  song  his  lips  had  taught  me 
to  sing. 

"Isn't  it  sweet  that  cherished  memories  linger  in 
our  hearts?"  I  murmured,  as  the  last  word  of  the 
song  left  my  lips,  "that  they  linger,  to  sweeten  all 
the  days  of  our  lives,  and  at  some  needed  hour  we 
can  lift  the  lid  of  our  treasure  box,  as  I  have  this 
hour?  Dear  jewels,  given  to  comfort  and  bless!" 

A  knock  at  the  door  recalled  me  to  the  lateness 
of  the  hour. 

"Oh,  I  must  go !"  I  cried,  suddenly  conscious  that 
this  was  the  eve  of  my  first  appearance  in  New  York. 


Cfte  WtMng  95 


"You  know  what  a  first  night  means,  don't  you? 
But  I  needed  what  I  have  found  here  to  make  it  a 
success,"  I  added. 

"I  will  tell  you  now  why  I  thought  you  new  to 
New  York,"  he  answered,  closing  the  door  that  had 
unlatched,  and  standing  in  front  of  it.  I  was  still 
sitting  at  the  piano,  my  fingers  lay  warm  upon  the 
keys,  my  eyes  still  held  the  visions  of  the  past  in 
them. 

"Do  tell  me!"  I  said,  forcing  myself  into  the 
present. 

"You  want  so  much  out  of  life,  my  dear.  Your 
nature  is  calling  so  loudly.  You  are  so  full  of 
enthusiasm,  you  are  unwearied  in  your  eagerness. 
You  have  ideals,  and  believe  in  them;  to  sum  it  all 
up,  you  are  alive,  and  not  dead  like  most  I  meet,  but 
you  need  love  to  help  you  on." 

He  was  at  the  piano  now,  but  I  was  still  absorbed, 
and  would  not  recognize  the  jarring  element  in  the 
dear  Professor's  room. 

"I  must  go,"  I  said,  "and  I  do  thank  you  for  let- 
ting me  feel  at  home  here.  It  is  almost  as  if  my  old 
friend  had  given  me  welcome.  You  are  right  about 
the  ideals.  I  have  them,  and  I  shall  keep  them  un- 
sullied in  the  bewildering  mazes  of  your  city.  Oh, 
I  am  glad  I  am  a  country  girl  to  you,  if  to  be  that 
means  to  be  radiant  with  the  beauty  of  truth." 

He  picked  up  -his  violin,  as  I  arose  and  buttoned 
my  coat. 

"I  will  go  with  you,  if  you  don't  object,"  and  he 
opened  the  door  and  waited  until  I  passed  out.  As 
he  closed  it  I  saw  written  on  the  glass  Max  Frieder, 
violinist. 


96 Lotie  fln 

"I  am  coming  to  see  you  to-night,"  he  announced, 
"to  hear  you  sing.  What  theatre  ?"  he  questioned. 

"The  Bijou,"  I  answered  dully,  feeling  no  in- 
terest. 

"I  shall  be  there.  Will  you  let  me  know  you  bet- 
ter, Miss — Grier,  did  you  say?" 

"Yes — Elsa  Grier,"  I  innocently  added. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  theatre  now,  or  to  your 
hotel?"  he  asked.  "I  can  start  you  on  your  way,  if 
I  know." 

"To  the  theatre,  Mr.  Frieder,"  I  said,  using  his 
name  for  the  first  time.  "I  shall  be  glad  of  guid- 
ance in  the  right  direction.  I  am  afraid  of  the  turns 
to  the  left  and  right;  another  evidence  of  being  a 
country  lass,  you  see." 

I  accepted  his  friendliness  because  I  had  found 
him  in  the  Professor's  rooms,  and  felt  nothing  wrong 
in  such  a  meeting — 'twas  as  though  we  had  met 
through  him.  We  hurried  along  through  the  now 
crowded  streets.  It  was  growing  dark,  and  shadows 
lay  close  to  the  tall  buildings. 

"I  shall  see  you  again,  Miss  Grier,"  he  said,  as 
we  reached  the  block  where  the  theatre  stood,  and 
his  gloved  hand  was  outstretched  for  mine,  while  his 
eyes  glowed  like  two  coals,  so  earnest  was  their  ex- 
pression. I  read  nothing  in  their  depths  but  a  soul 
awakened,  and  keen  to  the  joy  of  living.  I  felt  no 
desire  for  food  as  I  entered  the  side  entrance  to  the 
stage  door,  but  found  my  dressing  room  silently. 
I  could  not  eat  with  these  emotions  stealing  over  me, 
so  I  sat  in  the  dark  in  a  large  lounging  chair,  that 
tempted,  to  let  thoughts  have  their  way. 


Cfte  iKIeatnng  97 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Gradually  the  dim  twilight  that  filled  the  room  on 
my  entrance  gave  way  to  the  deeper  blackness  of 
night.  How  I  enjoyed  the  great  easy  chair.  The 
trailing  of  the  long  shadow  fingers  charmed  me,  as 
they  crept  over  the  wall,  at  first  faintly  outlining  the 
dressing  table  and  the  photographs  standing  there, 
then  obscuring  everything  in  a  total  darkness  that 
even  my  eyes  could  not  penetrate.  Their  gentle  way 
of  caressing  each  picture  and  touching  my  dress  like 
a  benediction  fitted  into  my  mind. 

At  six-thirty  the  door  was  pushed  gently  ajar  and 
a  voice  said : 

"Are  you  there,  Miss  Elsa?" 

It  was  Liza,  a  negro  woman  Mr.  Alexander  had 
engaged  for  me  as  maid. 

"Yes,  Liza,  I  am  here  dreaming  in  the  dark. 
Come  in.  It  is  a  good  thing  you  came  promptly, 
because  I  was  relying  upon  you  to  rescue  me  from 
wandering  too  far  away  in  my  thoughts.  You  had 
better  go  next  door  and  get  me  a  cup  of  tea  and 
some  toast.  I  don't  want  to  grow  faint  as  evening 
lengthens.  I  cannot  eat  much,  I  am  too  excited,  and 
then  we  are  to  be  entertained  afterward  at  some  club. 
Just  get  tea,  and  never  mind  anything  else  now, 
Liza." 

She  turned  up  the  lights,  and  was  gone.     She 


98 Lotie   3n 

promised  to  be  a  treasure,  I  could  feel  that.  She 
had  quiet  ways  and  was  remarkably  intelligent.  The 
make-up  troubled  me  more  than  anything  else.  It 
was  difficult  to  put  the  paint  on  evenly  and  the  trick 
of  lengthening  my  eyebrows  took  an  amount  of  time 
that  horrified  me. 

One  of  the  women  of  the  company  had  given  me 
a  long  lesson,  and  Charles  Grey  had  added  the  fin- 
ishing touches.  Yet  it  was  the  part  of  the  prepara- 
tion that  I  disliked  most,  and  I  started  in  on  it  first 
to  get  it  over  with  and  out  of  the  way.  I  had  my 
cheeks  like  two  roses,  when  Liza  returned,  tray  in 
hand.  This  she  put  on  a  chair,  so  between  the  add- 
ing of  a  dash  of  rouge  and  a  line  of  crayon,  I  sipped 
my  tea. 

The  stage,  on  this,  my  first  appearance  in  New 
York,  was  set  for  a  summer  fete.  Mr.  Knowles 
had  taken  great  pains  with  this  opening  scene.  He 
had  studied  the  lights  and  shades  till  the  harmony 
of  color  was  perfect.  Nature  had  found  her  way 
through  doors  and  windows,  and  gave  of  her  loveli- 
ness liberally.  A  fountain  sent  perfumed  sprays  into 
a  pond  where  lilies  nodded  sleepy  heads.  There  was 
an  arbor  effect  upon  one  side.  Flowers  and  grow- 
ing plants  were  everywhere,  even  springing  up  on 
the  winding  paths  at  unexpected  corners. 

The  gown  I  was  to  wear  was  a  delicate  pink.  It 
would  blend  into  the  dark  rose  tints  of  the  growing 
flowers  in  the  garden.  When  I  stood  ready  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  Mr.  Grey.  He 
opened  it  at  my  bidding.  A  look  of  surprise  stole 
'  over  his  countenance  as  he  surveyed  me  resplendent 


99 


in  the  shimmering  silk  that  held  the  values  of  rose 
petals  as  it  fell  gracefully  about  my  figure. 

"It  is  very  becoming,  you  quite  startle  me,"  he 
said.  "May  I  wish  you  luck?"  and  he  stared  in- 
tently at  me  for  a  moment,  then,  as  if  recalling 
himself,  added,  "I  came  to  show  you  this,"  and 
held  the  evening  paper  toward  me.  "Just  look  it 
over,  it  will  give  you  confidence  to  know  what  thew 
are  telling  the  public  about  you  —  Alexander  never 
puts  it  on,  either,  as  some  managers  do." 

"I  can't  sit,"  I  said,  laughing,  "I  might  muss  it," 
and  I  made  a  grimace  at  my  dress.  "I  can  read 
standing  just  as  well,"  and  I  sent  a  merry  little 
twinkle  into  my  eyes,  then  glanced  up  at  him.  "It's 
quite  like  my  first  party,  or  a  birthday  dance,  and 
you  -  " 

"I  am  your  first  beau  —  eh,  Miss  Elsa?" 

After  so  reckless  a  remark  he  dared  a  second  look 
into  my  eyes,  and  disappeared,  as  he  should,  for  I 
was  blushing  furiously  even  redder  than  the  paint. 
I  looked  at  Liza  to  see  if  she  had  heard,  but  her 
face  was  like  a  bronze  statue,  still  and  quiet.  If  she 
had  noticed  she  made  no  sign. 

I  opened  the  paper  wide  and  read,  "There  are  a 
number  of  attractive  features  about  the  play  at  the 
Bijou  to-night.  One  of  them  is  the  new  leading 
lady.  Born  just  out  of  New  York,  yet  it  is  her 
first  appearance  here.  Circumstances  gave  her  a 
taste  for  the  stage,  although  it  is  as  a  singer  she 
first  thought  to  appear  in  New  York.  The  two  most 
interesting  facts  about  her  are  —  she  is  young,  good 
looking,  and  as  yet  unspoiled  by  contact  with  a 
selfish  world.  The  regular  patrons  of  the  Bijou  are 


ioo ' none  Sn 

promised  a  treat  when  Elsa  Grier  steps  on  to  the 
stage,  and  when  she  casts  the  spell  of  her  voice  upon 
the  audience  she  will  win  hearts  in  spite  of  being  a 
stranger  and  unknown  to  the  theatre-going  public." 

I  had  never  seen  my  name  in  a  real  newspaper 
before,  the  two  sheets  published  daily  at  home  could 
hardly  be  called  a  paper,  and  it  made  me  draw  a 
deep  breath.  I  could  not  fail  to-night — no,  not  after 
visiting  the  Professor's  studio,  and  surely  not  after 
he — Charles  Grey,  had  thought  me  beautiful.  I 
could  not  disappoint  him  or  Mr.  Alexander,  who  had 
given  me  this  opportunity. 

Another  knock  at  the  door,  this  time  it  was  a 
long  box. 

"Oh,  open  it  quickly,  Liza!"  I  cried.  "Roses — 
and  such  roses !" 

Our  country  blooms  would  look  small  beside  the 
wonderful  f ull-petaled  blossoms  tucked  away  so  care- 
fully in  that  florist's  box.  Who  could  have  sent 
them? — no  card  was  in  sight.  It  was  only  after 
I  had  lifted  the  last  blossom  out  of  the  box  that  it 
came  into  view,  and  then  it  was  almost  hidden  away 
amid  green  leaves.  Who  ever  gave  them,  wanted 
the  soft  rose-petals  to  charm  and  bewilder  me,  be- 
fore the  giver  of  so  much  loveliness  disclosed  his 
name. 

There  it  was,  a  thin  white  envelope.  I  tore  it 
open,  drew  out  the  card,  and  read  "Max  Frieder." 
What  could  it  mean,  his  remembering  me  ?  It  sent 
a  thrill  of  delight  through  me.  It  was  all  so  new, 
this  homage  and  attention  that  was  coming  to  me. 

"I'll  put  one  in  my  hair,  Liza,  if  you  will  shorten 
the  stem.  It  is  dark  red,  and  will  blend  with  the 


Cfre  ftOeatifng  101 


dress  all  right.  I  would  wear  it,  though,  if  it  did 
not  harmonize.  Don't  you  think  kindness  is  always 
harmonizing,  even  if  done  up  in  disagreeable  colors, 
Liza?  —  I  do.  There,  it  just  fits  in  that  wave  of 
hair,  back  of  my  ear,  and  will  be  whispering  to  me 
all  the  evening." 

Max  Frieder,  sitting  near  the  back  row,  made  the 
same  reflection  as  he  \vatched  the  slender  girl  fig- 
ure move  here  and  there  about  the  stage.  The  cur- 
rent of  his  feeling  was  powerful,  his  eyes  glowed 
with  desire  to  pick  this  living  blossom  and  wear  it 
in  his  bosom. 

"Last  call  !"  came  echoing  through  the  thin  parti- 
tion, as  I  stood  admiring  the  effect  of  the  rose  in 
my  hair.  It  made  me  appeal  impulsively  to  Liza, 
standing  mute  and  solemn-eyed,  by  the  window. 

"You  don't  think  I'll  fail—  do  you,  Liza?" 

An  awful  fear  clutched  at  my  heart.  Before  she 
could  answer,  Mr.  Alexander's  head  was  in  the  door- 
way and  his  face  was  aglow  with  smiles. 

"My!  what  a  vision  of  loveliness,  Miss  Elsa.  I 
just  dropped  in  to  tell  you  to  keep  up  your  nerve. 
There  is  a  fine  audience,  not  one  of  your  cold  first 
nighters,  but  a  host  of  real  lovers  of  the  drama.  I 
can  size  them  up  in  a  minute,  you  bet,  and  I  gave 
the  whole  lot  a  good  looking  over  before  coming 
here.  Just  you  go  ahead  and  be  your  own  earnest 
self  and  forget  about  the  feathers  and  gew-gaws  in 
front.  I'm  banking  on  you,  Miss  Elsa  —  sort  of 
feel  I  found  a  real  pearl  back  there  in  that  off-the- 
map  village  of  yours." 

"I  won't  disappoint  you,  Mr.  Alexander.  You 
have  been  too  kind." 


103 Lone  3tn 

"You  said  those  words  once  before,  my  dear. 
You  made  them  good  then,  and  I  believe  in  them 
now.  I  don't  make  mistakes  often.  That  earnest 
little  body  of  yours  can  act,  and  when  you  sing  it 
won't  really  matter  much  how  you  act,  anyway,  eh, 
my  girl  ?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"Well,  good  luck!  The  orchestra  has  begun  and 
I  must  get  back  where  I  belong,"  he  said,  as  he  dis- 
appeared. 

He  had  come  in  like  a  sudden  whirlwind,  but  he 
left  strength  behind  in  his  words.  They  turned  my 
thought  away  from  failure.  Liza  went  with  me  to 
the  wings  and  I  stood  waiting. 

It  was  over,  my  entrance.  Yes,  and  quicker  than 
I  can  tell  about  it,  I  was  on  the  stage.  I  went 
through  the  scene,  never  missing  a  cue;  that  was 
what  had  worried  me  most,  the  cues.  I  forgot  all 
about  them  as  the  act  opened.  I  found  myself  in 
the  midst  of  merry  f casters.  He  was  there,  Charles 
Grey,  and  it  changed  from  a  play  for  me  into  a  real 
fete.  My  imagination  was  my  dearest  possession. 
It  opened  up  vistas  for  me  that  whirled  me  along 
with  events  as  real  as  if  I  had  been  whisked  off 
this  planet  on  to  another,  where  I  was  somebody 
else,  somewhere  else. 

Every  one  was  light-hearted  and  gay.  The  ar- 
bor and  flower  beds  lost  their  artificial  look  under 
the  dim,  shaded  lights.  I  was  bewitched.  I  teased 
them  all  with  my  merry  ways,  and  him  especially, 
as  I  did  when  we  walked  under  the  elm  trees;  but 
he  was  bolder  here  in  the  part,  and  took  liberties 
that  startled  me,  that  sent  me  to  my  dressing  room, 


Cfre  Eaeamng  103 


as  the  curtain  descended,  with  heart  beating  wildly. 

We  were  recalled,  and  Mr.  Alexander  led  me  on 
to  the  stage.  Oh,  how  grateful  I  was  to  him  for 
doing  that!  I  dreaded  the  calling  before  the  cur- 
tain, and  he  knew  about  it,  for  I  had  confided  my 
fear  to  his  wife;  how  I  thanked  him  in  my  heart! 
The  play  continued  until  the  curtain  went  up  on  the 
last  act.  It  was  the  scene  I  had  counted  on  most, 
for  I  was  more  at  home  in  song  than  anywhere 
else. 

Could  I  have  done  it  without  Charles  Grey?  I 
hardly  think  so.  There  was  strength  in  his  mere 
presence  in  the  picture  when  I  appeared.  The  touch 
of  his  hand  calmed  me  and  his  eyes  melted  away  in 
mine,  for  they  spoke  to  me  of  many  things  as  we 
went  through  our  parts. 

He  caught  my  hand  and  whispered  in  my  ear, 
as  I  was  about  to  leave  the  stage  after  the  curtain 
had  gone  down  ;  it  was  the  first  dark  moment  before 
the  stage  hands  take  possession  of  everything.  "Let 
me  see  you  home  ?"  and  I  consented. 

I  had  forgotten  the  supper,  as  had  he.  We  both 
recalled  it  later  as  we  met  on  the  street  in  front 
where  the  party  awaited  us. 

I  don't  remember  the  place  to  which  they  took 
me.  I  was  conscious  only  of  the  dim  lights,  the  bab- 
ble of  voices,  the  cozy  tables,  and  the  music  that 
tried  to  drown  the  noise  of  busy  tongues.  There 
were  eight  of  us,  and,  upon  entering,  I  was  sepa- 
rated from  Charles  Grey,  but  in  the  arranging  he 
held  the  seat  beside  him  and  motioned  me  there.  I 
came  at  his  bidding,  much  to  my  dismay.  But  so 


104 Lotie  3fn 

many  things  were  happening  to  me  this  night  of 
nights  that  I  soon  forgot  the  incident. 

"And  now  for  the  toast  of  the  evening,"  said 
Wilbur  Knowles  from  the  far  end  of  the  table.  The 
supper  was  well  on  its  way,  and  every  one  was 
smiling  with  that  content  which  marks  the  satisfac- 
tion of  the  inner  man. 

"Here's  to  the  success  of  our  songbird,  Miss  Elsa 
Grier." 

"I  drink  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Alexander,  rising  to 
his  feet,  and  his  dear  lady  threw  me  a  kiss  across 
the  table,  as  they  clinked  glasses.  I  was  being 
whirled  along,  I  knew  not  where,  only  the  ecstasy 
was  with  me,  and  of  that  I  was  conscious. 

We  walked  to  the  hotel  under  the  stars,  my  arms 
filled  with  the  roses  of  Max  Frieder,  and  my  thought 
with  the  man  at  my  side.  It  was  over.  I  was 
really  out  in  the  great  world  alone.  Would  fate  con- 
tinue kind  to  me  and  lead  me  in  pleasant  paths  and 
by  the  still  waters  of  peace?  There  was  a  tender 
pressure  on  my  arm.  In  two  dark  eyes  a  look  that 
gave  me  faith.  I  turned  my  face  upward  to  the 
stars  and  was  unafraid  to  take  the  next  step  for- 
ward. 


Ct)e  ftOeafcing  105 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  clodc  on  the  mantel  of  my  room  chimed  the 
hour  of  two  as  I  entered.  I  had  found  two  letters 
under  the  door,  and  as  I  turned  on  the  light  I  dis- 
covered a  box  on  the  table.  I  was  eager  for  one 
of  the  letters.  I  knew  the  dear  handwriting.  It 
was  hers — my  mother's.  I  needed  her  words  before 
I  could  really  hug  the  joy  of  success  to  my  heart. 
The  chief  pleasure  in  praise  is  the  certainty  of  some 
worth,  and  this  I  wanted  to  come  from  her.  I  felt 
wide  awake,  as  if  it  were  the  early  morning  hour. 
I  went  to  the  window.  Outside,  the  great  world 
slept.  At  far  intervals  tiny  lights  sent  out  steady 
rays,  drawing  home,  perhaps,  misguided  feet.  The 
sky  was  an  intense  blackness  unbroken  by  the  flicker 
of  a  star.  I  had  never  known  the  terror  of  life,  and 
the  dark  heavens  only  awed  me.  They  could  not 
shadow  the  love  I  felt  over,  above,  and  around  me. 
'Twas  but  a  deeper  glimpse  into  the  depth  of  life. 

Perhaps  sorrow  was  in  the  blackness,  but  I  knew 
love  was  there,  too,  and  I  was  not  afraid.  Leav- 
ing the  window,  I  turned  on  the  lights  over  the  dark 
oak  dresser.  The  tiny  room  was  now  in  a  blaze, 
and  revealed  to  me  a  smiling  face  in  the  mirror. 
My  hair  hung  around  the  face  reflected  there,  in 
careless  ripples.  Just  enough  of  my  make-up  clung 


106 Lotte  3tt 

to  my  cheeks  to  give  the  faintest  tinge  of  color,  and 
there  was  youth  in  my  eyes. 

The  rose  still  nestled  in  my  hair,  but  it  drooped, 
and  was  fading.  I  had  forgotten  its  existence. 
The  charm  of  its  beauty  had  not  followed  me  into 
the  sanctity  of  my  bedchamber.  Poor,  faded  rose 
— it  had  given  its  life  to  me.  I  pulled  it  out  of  my 
hair  and  tenderly  stroked  the  velvet  petals.  Noth- 
ing had  been  withheld.  Its  sweet  odors  had  sur- 
rounded me,  and  the  tender  pressure  of  its  leaves  had 
given  courage. 

"Dear  rose — sleep — you  have  mingled  your  life  in 
mine,"  I  whispered,  as  I  stood  gazing  at  the  reflec- 
tion in  the  mirror.  Suddenly  my  lips  quivered. 
Then,  after  a  silent  struggle,  my  eyes  closed  over 
welling  tears,  for  I  was  alone  on  the  evening  of  my 
triumph.  But  I  had  the  letter,  and  hurrying  into  a 
wrapper  I  tore  it  open. 

"Elsa  dear,"  and  I  was  lost  in  the  closely  written 
pages.  I  leaned  back  in  the  chair,  smiling  and  sat- 
isfied once  more.  What  a  beautiful  night  it  had 
been.  What  a  beautiful  night!  I  hugged  my  let- 
ter to  my  heart,  and  was  it  fancy  that  I  felt  the  ex- 
quisite nearness  of  her  presence?  My  eyes  would 
constantly  revert  to  the  white  pages  to  find  sentences 
here  and  there  that  particularly  pleased  me.  What 
dear  letters  she  wrote!  I  had  never  known  before 
the  charm  of  her  written  thought,  and  I  re-read  from 
the  pages  before  me  eagerly. 

"Betsy  is  well,"  she  gossiped,  "and  lies  at  my  feet 
constantly.  He  seems  to  have  lost  his  desire  for 
roaming  about  at  night.  It  must  be  because  you  are 
not  here,  and  he  feels  the  responsibility  of  keeping 


Cfre  £Ocatifng  10? 


me  company.  I  am  lonesome  for  you,  child.  I 
close  my  eyes  at  night  and  bring  you  before  my 
mental  vision.  Last  night  the  moon  tempted  me 
into  keeping  awake  later  than  usual.  Its  pale  rays 
flooded  the  garden  and  changed  everything  to  silver. 

"Dear  moon,  giver  of  dreams,  it  almost  blinded 
me  with  the  wonder  of  its  light,  for  the  moon  rays 
search  the  innermost  parts  of  our  being.  As  I 
watched  the  silver  glow,  veiling  tree  and  leaf  with 
beauty,  I  sat  dreaming  far  into  the  night.  I  have  a 
confession  to  make,  Elsa,  I  fell  asleep.  As  I  leaned 
back  unconscious  in  my  chair  the  fairy  fingers  of 
dreams  soothed  me  away  into  the  world,  where  I 
have  so  often  rocked  you  in  my  arms.  In  my 
dreaming  I  walked  along  the  ragged  edge  of  a  bar- 
ren waste.  It  was  a  desert,  and  it  was  called  Life. 
I  knew  it,  for  I  have  traveled  in  its  wilderness  many 
years. 

"Suddenly  I  left  the  desert  behind,  and  before  me 
was  a  tangle  of  thorn  bushes.  I  pushed  them  apart, 
the  thorns  pricked  my  flesh.  Through  the  opening 
I  saw  a  green  meadow.  Elsa,  as  I  sat  thus  alone 
dreaming,  bathed  in  the  moon  glow,  there  was  a  bird 
trill  calling  me  to  the  green  meadow.  It  was  a 
voice  long  silent.  It  came  in  answer  to  a  cherished 
hope  of  my  heart.  What  can  it  mean,  child?  Is 
my  wandering  soon  to  be  over,  and  is  heart's-ease 
the  flower  I  am  to  wear  on  my  bosom  ?  Biding  that 
time,  my  soul  is  hushed  to  quietness  and  calm  in 
communion  with  you,  dear  child." 

Thus  the  letter  ran  on,  and  I  tenderly  kissed  it 
as  I  folded  it  away  in  the  envelope.  I  had  forgotten 
the  larger  missive.  It  lay  neglected  at  my  feet, 


108 Lobe  3n 

where  it  had  fallen.  The  bold  type  looked  up  at 
me  from  the  floor  and  aroused  me  to  a  sudden  curi- 
osity. It  was  but  a  few  lines  of  congratulation  from 
Max  Frieder.  He  would  call  in  the  morning.  I 
hardly  knew  whether  I  cared  to  receive  him.  Yet 
there  was  a  certain  magic  about  him  that  fasci- 
nated when  in  his  presence.  Once  again,  as  on  that 
restless  night  when  I  had  sought  quiet  in  my 
mother's  bed,  a  deep  yearning  stirred  in  my  breast. 
A  burning  desire  swept  over  me  to  do  something1 
noble  and  sincere  in  life.  I  had  entered  the  world 
with  a  heart  full  of  love  to  lay  upon  its  altar.  I 
was  full  of  sympathy  and  trust  for  all  men.  It  was 
not  a  strange  thing,  I  mused,  this  desire,  because 
she  had  told  me  so  many  times  that  my  heritage  was 
love.  How  tender  and  true  must  have  been  the  tie 
that  bound  them  together — my  mother  and  father. 
But  it  was  getting  late,  I  must  go  to  bed.  I 
started  to  turn  out  the  lights  when  I  spied  the  box 
on  the  table.  Violets !  and  for  me !  How  soft  their 
color  and  how  full  of  tenderness.  They  have  a  lan- 
guage all  their  own.  Their  purple  loveliness  sent  a 
thrill  of  rapture  through  me  for  I  knew  the  giver 
without  a  glance  at  the  card.  I  put  them  on  the 
pillow  of  my  bed  and  turned  out  the  lights.  As 
my  lids  grew  heavy  each  flower-petal  spoke  to  me. 
In  their  tender  fragrant  hearts  I  .found  the  fulfill- 
ment of  to-morrow's  dreams. 


Cfce  OOeafcmg  109 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Three  weeks  passed  and  we  were  still  playing1  to 
crowded  houses.  Mr.  Alexander's  round,  ruddy 
face  was  extended  in  a  constant  smile.  His  eyes, 
always  laughing,  had  caught  an  extra  twinkle,  which 
lay  in  their  depths  to  flash  jokes  at  every  one  with 
their  changing  hues.  He  had  not  forgotten  the  pas- 
sion of  enthusiasm,  and  fairly  bubbled  over  with 
fun,  from  his  height  of  approving  interest. 

One  night  as  I  stood  waiting  my  entrance  in 
my  little  box  of  a  dressing  room  he  knocked.  His 
solemn  tone  of  voice,  the  affected  quiver  of  dignity 
in  the  words  uttered,  sent  me  guessing  as  I  called 
out  cheerily: 

"Come  in,  thou  stern  bearer  of  tidings.  What 
has  happened,  my  liege  lord?  Thy  tone  portends  a 
sacrifice  to  the  Gods.  Of  all  the  Gods,  worshipful 
Sir,  which  do  we  serve  on  bended  knee  this  auspi- 
cious night?" 

I  caught  up  a  long  veil,  and,  reckless  of  curls, 
threw  it  over  my  head  as  I  finished  the  last  word. 
With  a  grand  sweep  of  my  palm,  I  bent  humbly  be- 
fore him.  I  was  a  child  still,  having  known  nought 
in  life  but  happiness. 

He  was  a  child,  even  as  I,  because  success  had 
smiled  upon  him.  The  imps  of  gladness  are  thus  all- 
powerful  when  they  control. 


110 Lone  Sn 

"I  have  good  news  for  you,  little  girl,"  he  said, 
helping  himself  to  a  chair.  I  sat  on  a  stool  near 
the  door.  His  voice  was  big  with  joy,  and  his  hands 
played  with  a  rather  prominent  watch  fob  as  he 
spoke. 

"Our  cup  runneth  over — eh  ?"  he  continued. 

I  was  all  attention  now.  I  could  see  that  the 
quick  change  from  frivolity  and  banter  to  this  seri- 
ous countenance  meant  something.  I  glanced  to- 
ward him  eagerly — my  still  eyelids  told  of  absorbing 
interest. 

"George  Carton,  the  artist,  is  out  front,"  he  said. 
"He  came  to  me  in  my  office  after  the  first  act  and 
asked  me  all  about  you.  I  gave  him  a  pretty  fairy 
tale;  managers  get  in  the  way  of  doing  that,  you 
know.  But  I  told  him  the  right  thing,  Miss  Elsa, 
you  can  bet  on  that." 

I  sent  him  a  look  of  confidence,  and  said : 

"I  could  not  doubt  that,  Mr.  Alexander." 

But  he  continued,  seemingly  absorbed  in  his  story : 

"He  was  here  last  night  and  heard  you  sing.  He 
is  mad  about  your  voice,  and  you.  He  says  your 
music  has  soul  in  it.  That  you  bring  messages  to 
hearts." 

"Oh,  he  didn't!"  I  cried. 

"Yes ;  that's  true  as  I  sit  here !" 

"If  I  could  always  believe  that  I  have  in  me  that 
power  over  hearts !  If  I  could  sing  cheer  into  lonely 
ones — hope  into  the  bone  and  fiber  of  the  hopeless 
ones!  If  I  really  could  do  this,  Mr.  Alexander! 
Show  the  world  that  God  is  love!" 

He  sat  before  me  half  mystified,  following  me  as 
far  as  he  could. 


Cfje 


"Music  of  the  heart,  that's  the  way  he  put  it, 
Miss  Elsa.  I  rather  liked  his  ravings,  and  that's  the 
truth.  He  is  a  poet-painter,  they  say,  and  one  must 
look  for  emotional  work  there." 

I  was  almost  deaf  to  his  words,  I  was  still  lost  in 
the  suggestion  they  had  given  me. 

"He  brought  his  wife  to-night,"  he  continued, 
"and  she  is  delighted  with  you,  also." 

"Too  much  praise,"  I  answered,  blushing.  "How 
can  you  expect  me  to  descend  from  so  high  a  pin- 
nacle and  go  on  in  the  next  act?"  I  laughed. 

But  he  ignored  my  playfulness,  and  said:  "She 
is  one  of  your  china-doll  affairs,  Miss  Elsa.  At 
least,  that's  what  they  tell  me,"  and  he  winked.  "We 
haven't  come  to  New  York  for  nothing,  have  we,  my 
dear?" 

I  had  heard  of  the  pictures  of  George  Carton. 
Only  last  night  they  had  been  under  discussion  with 
Max  Frieder,  as  we  chatted  after  the  matinee. 

"Is  he  a  painter  of  nature?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Alexander,  "but  I  have  heard 
that  his  great  talent  is  in  portraiture.  Of  late  years 
he  has  put  it  aside,  they  tell  me.  His  wife  is  one 
of  the  swells,  my  dear,  and  a  stunner  for  looks. 
His  heart  is  in  a  little  circle  of  artists  that  frequent 
his  studio.  He  loves  his  work.  I  have  seen  one  or 
two  of  his  efforts,  and,  take  my  word  for  it,  his 
paths  of  green  through  the  branches  of  his  elm 
trees  lead  straight  to  eternity.  Even  I  can  feel  that, 
and  I  ain't  much  on  poetry,  am  I,  Miss  Elsa?" 

I  held  up  my  finger  reprovingly,  and  he  went  on. 

"He  seemed  so  eager  to  have  you  sing  that  I  con- 
sented. It  is  the  proper  caper,  I  guess,  to  cultivate 


112 Lobe  Jn 

a  few  of  the  top-notchers,  eh?  His  wife  is  on  the 
top  round,  too.  At  any  rate,  I  promised  that  you 
would  come.  How  about  it  ?" 

The  distant  sound  of  the  orchestra  rose  and  fell 
on  my  ears.  It  was  almost  as  the  accent  of  a  loved 
voice,  and  sent  my  pulses  beating  in  time  with  the 
fascinating  rhythm  of  its  harmony. 

"You  deliver  your  message  well,"  I  responded  at 
last 

I  smiled,  my  ears  straining  to  catch  the  far-away 
melody.  Something  within  bade  me  seek  its  soft 
soothings,  bade  me  let  it  play  upon  me  as  an  instru- 
ment for  its  use.  I  was  young,  and  it  whispered 
many  things.  I  pulled  the  petals  of  a  rose  apart 
that  I  held,  in  my  half  abstraction. 

"A  morning  musical,  Mr.  Alexander,  did  you 
say?" 

"That's  what  he  called  it,  Miss  Elsa.  A  carriage 
will  be  at  your  disposal  at  twelve  o'clock.  I  even 
promised  to  escort  you,  myself." 

The  room  swam.  Visions  crept  before  my  eyes. 
'Twas  the  rose  petals,  they  fell  into  the  silent  world 
of  my  heart.  I  was  awed,  as  if  an  unseen  presence 
floated  in  with  the  words  of  this  invitation. 

"Oh,  if  you  would  go  with  me!"  I  cried.  "It 
frightens  me  to  go  among  strangers.  The  faces  over 
the  footlights  are  easier  to  meet.  To  stand  before 

the  fashionable  world "  he  interrupted  me,  and 

laughed. 

"I  was  afraid  they  would  devour  you,  that's  the 
reason  I  am  going  to  get  leave  of  absence  from  that 
good  wife  of  mine  and  take  you  into  their  midst 
under  my  wing." 


C&e  fcOeam'ng  us 


"I  guess  I  am  a  very  capricious  girl,"  I  cried; 
"foolish,  too,  and  perhaps  silly,  Mr.  Alexander; 
but  your  going  will  make  the  event  my  pleasure 
day." 

"You  are  an  arch-flatterer,  my  dear,"  he  said,  ris- 
ing to  go.  "They  have  apartments  in  Central  Park 
West.  Here  is  his  card,"  and  he  handed  me  the 
square  pasteboard. 

I  read  the  name  slowly,  George  Carton.  I  liked 
it,  and  told  Mr.  Alexander  so  as  he  turned  the 
handle  of  the  door  and  disappeared  in  the  dim  light 
beyond.  I  repeated  the  words  many  times,  lingered 
over  them  as  one  lingers  when  speaking  the  name 
of  one  loved. 

The  lights  and  shades  of  the  distant  melody  came 
indirectly  to  my  ears  as  before.  The  sweet  sound 
sought  me  in  my  dreaming,  and  led  me  blind  into 
the  bewildering  joy  of  a  deep  emotion.  I  stood 
transfixed  before  my  mirror  awaiting  my  summons 
to  that  other  world  on  the  stage. 

"George  Carton  !"  my  lips  kept  repeating.  I  tried 
to  picture  the  kind  of  man  that  two  such  strong 
names  would  fit.  In  fancy  I  drew  a  mental  outline 
of  his  face.  How  completely  commonplace  sounded 
the  words  "Last  Call"  through  the  empty  corridors 
that  led  to  the  various  dressing  rooms. 

This  was  a  living  event,  the  coming  of  this  man 
into  my  life.  I  was  sorry  that  the  orchestra  had 
stopped  playing.  Its  harmony  fitted  my  mood. 

"George  Carton!"  I  murmured  as  I  left  the  dress- 
ing room,  following  Liza  into  the  wings. 

"George  Carton!" 


JLotoe  3rt 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  days  came  and  went,  and  the  morning  of  the 
musical  arrived.  The  sun  lay  in  the  heavens  as  a 
gold  mantle  over  the  world.  It  came  into  my  room, 
to  flood  it  with  warmth,  and  veiled  my  arms  as  I 
stretched  them  above  my  head  lazily.  My  face  re- 
flected its  cheer,  and  the  lids  of  my  eyes  lay  heavy 
upon  my  cheek,  so  deep  had  penetrated  the  glory  of 
the  sun  in  their  depths.  I  stood  hesitating  at  the 
door  of  my  wardrobe.  My  fingers  strayed  tenderly 
over  the  soft  fabrics,  hanging  still  and  silent  upon 
the  black  hooks. 

For  a  moment  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Aiken  passed 
before  me,  and  once  more  my  heart  warmed  toward 
the  grim  woman,  who  had  made  all  this  row  of  love- 
liness possible  for  me. 

"Which  shall  I  wear?"  I  asked  aloud,  addressing 
the  finery  upon  the  hooks.  "Which  ?" 

Instinctively  I  reached  for  the  blue  gown  that  had 
caught  my  fancy  that  evening  of  the  long  ago  at 
home.  I  lifted  it  from  the  nail  on  the  wall  and  laid 
it  upon  the  bed.  The  silky  folds  of  the  dress  lay  in 
shimmering  waves  on  the  white  counterpane.  My 
hair  was  coiled  loosely  at  my  neck,  and,  turning  to 
the  mirror,  I  stretched  a  strand  of  pearl  beads  across 
the  front,  losing  it  in  the  coil  behind.  Then,  pick- 


SHeafcing  115" 

ing  up  the  dress,  I  let  it  fall  quickly  round  my  slen- 
der figure  and  stood  ready. 

I  was  gently  smoothing  the  soft  silk  of  the  skirt 
when  Mrs.  Alexander  entered,  to  see  me  in  all  my 
finery. 

"You  look  a  dream,  child,"  she  exclaimed. 

I  turned,  struck  a  position  for  her  benefit,  affecting 
a  wonderful  air  in  my  posing. 

"You  are  a  monkey,"  she  said,  coming  toward  me 
suddenly.  I  professed  a  humble  submissiveness, 
and  said : 

"What  shall  I  sing?  That  is  the  real  issue  at 
present" 

And  she  laughingly  replied : 

"First,  one  of  those  high,  trilling  affairs  to  show 
off  your  voice.  Then  a  love  song  to  steal  into  their 
hearts." 

"Oh,  you  funny  dear!"  I  cried,  and  kissed  her 
upon  both  cheeks. 

"Max  Frieder  will  be  there,  Elsa." 

"And  what  of  that?"  I  responded  irreverently. 

"What  is  to  become  of  him?"  she  said.  "It  is 
growing  serious.  He  is  certainly  in  love  with  you, 
child.  I  can  see  the  flutter  of  excitement  into  which 
you  plunge  him,  every  time  he  is  near  you." 

I  stared  at  her. 

"Do  you  really  think  he  cares  so  much?" 

"He  is  absorbed  in  you,  that's  all.  Which  is  it, 
Elsa — Max  Frieder  or  Charles  Grey  ?" 

I  was  annoyed,  there  was  a  strange  clutching  at 
my  heart.  Charles  Grey — there  could  be  no  joking 
when  his  name  was  mentioned.  I  hardly  heard  her 
bantering : 


116 Lotoe  an 

"Roses  every  morning!  Letters  every  night! 
What  is  that  but  love,  Elsa  ?"  she  asked.  "And  what 
is  love?"  she  murmured  softly. 

The  madness  of  teasing  was  upon  her,  and  I 
laughed  in  spite  of  myself,  and  quickly  suited  my 
mood  to  hers.  I  gave  a  sudden  whirl  around  her, 
and  pinched  her  ear — one  always  did  those  things  to 
Mrs.  Alexander,  she  had  so  many  pinchy  places. 

"I  can  see  my  good  man  deserted  after  the  en- 
trance!" she  called  to  me.  "I  must  go  back,  Elsa! 
Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  "I  am  just  about  ready,  when 
I  look  through  my  songs." 

Again  I  was  alone,  and  my  thought  reverted 
to  her  question,  "What  is  love?" 

That  was  what  I  wanted  to  know.  I  had  seen  it 
beaming  from  Max  Frieder's  eyes,  and  I  had  rec- 
ognized it  in  the  dark  depths  of  Charles  Grey's. 
Love — love !  Was  it  soul  ?  Was  it  a  radiant  light  to 
lead  into  the  infinite?  I  loved  my  mother.  Was 
the  love  of  man  different?  My  worship  of  love 
grew  and  grew  as  I  questioned  my  heart.  I  would 
know  love,  find  my  beloved. 

Impulsively  I  opened  my  trunk,  sought  an  old 
book  of  fairy  romances,  and  read.  I  was  but  a  girl, 
but  it  was  the  woman  in  me  that  bent  over  the 
printed  pages  of  the  old  book. 

It  was  the  story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche.  I  fin- 
gered the  pages  lovingly,  and  read  aloud  until  I 
was  lost  in  the  ancient  tales. 

"In  a  certain  city  lived  a  king  and  queen  who  had 
three  daughters  exceedingly  fair.  But  the  beauty 
of  the  two  older  though  pleasant  to  behold,  yet 


Cfje  Wtatoing  117 


passed  not  the  measure  of  human  praise,  while  such 
was  the  loveliness  of  the  youngest  that  men's  speech 
was  too  poor  to  commend  it  worthily  and  could  ex- 
press it  not  at  all." 

The  quaintness  of  the  language  charmed  me,  and 
I  laughed  aloud  at  the  jealousy  of  the  Goddess 
Venus,  when  she  learned  of  the  worship  the 
earth  maiden  inspired.  How  natural  it  has  al- 
ways been  to  long  for  homage,  to  suffer,  as  the 
Goddess  of  old,  rise  up  in  our  anger,  and  hurl  forth 
a  full  revenge  upon  the  air.  I  could  see  the  "old 
images  uncrowned,  the  cold  ashes  left  to  disfigure 
her  forsaken  altars." 

In  her  wrath  Venus  called  her  son  to  her  and 
begged  him  to  compel  this  maid,  who  had  won  the 
worship  of  mortal  beings,  "to  become  the  slave  of 
an  unworthy  love." 

I  wranted  to  read  every  word,  but  in  my  eager- 
ness turned  over  the  pages,  leaving  the  jealous  rage 
of  the  Goddess  behind,  seeking  the  part  where  Cupid 
had  found  Psyche,  and  then  I  read  slowly  and  tear- 
fully of  their  happy  love  days.  How  Cupid  had 
started  forth  to  carry  out  the  wishes  of  his  mother, 
fell  under  the  charm  of  the  earth  maiden,  and  took 
her  as  wife. 

Their  blissful  hours  together  followed,  until  doubt 
and  distrust  separated  them.  How  the  flight  of 
Cupid  awoke  love  in  Psyche  !  Then  came  her  long 
search  over  the  wide  world.  "Poor  Psyche!"  I 
murmured,  letting  the  book  fall  into  my  lap  while 
into  my  eyes  crept  an  understanding  of  what  love  in 
a  life  could  mean.  "She  left  the  footprints  of  her 
devotion  everywhere,"  I  whispered  under  my  breath. 


Lone 


And  where  was  Cupid  ?  I  turned  the  pages  quickly 
and  read: 

"In  his  mother's  house  he  could  no  longer  en- 
dure the  absence  of  her  he  loved,  gliding  through 
the  narrow  window  of  the  chamber  where  he  was 
holden,  fled  forth  swiftly  and  coming  to  the  place 
where  Psyche  was  —  then  penetrated  with  vehement 
wing  into  the  highest  heaven  to  lay  his  cause  be- 
fore the  father  of  the  Gods." 

The  forgiveness  and  the  welcome  of  Psyche  into 
the  presence  of  the  Gods  followed.  I  turned  to  the 
last  page  and  read  aloud: 

"The  seasons  crimsoned  all  things  with  their  roses. 
Apollo  sang  to  the  lyre,  while  little  Pan  prattled 
on  his  reed  and  Venus  danced  very  sweetly  to  the 
soft  music." 

"Thus  Psyche  was  married  to  Cupid  after  she 
had  drunk  from  the  pot  of  immortality."  She 
awakened  into  the  high  service  of  love. 

It  was  a  sweet  story.  The  Gods  had  known  the 
truth  of  Psyche's  love  by  the  footprints,  and  meted 
out  her  reward  liberally.  Would  I  know  the  foot- 
prints ?  I  let  the  book  drop  into  my  lap,  in  my  deep 
abstraction.  The  story  charmed  me.  The  incom- 
pleteness of  life  without  love,  how  terrible.  To 
know  love!  Would  I  know  the  footprints  of  my 
beloved  ? 

The  warm  midday  sun  still  filled  my  room,  lay 
on  my  lips,  and  hushed  them  to  silence  and  trust. 

"All  ready,  Elsa?"  said  Mrs.  Alexander,  opening 
the  door.  Her  entrance  was  unexpected,  and  I 
jumped  up  in  a  fright. 


119 


"Why,  where  were  you,  child  ?  I  thought  you  ex- 
pected me  back." 

"I  did,  but  you  left  me  with  Cupid  hiding  in  the 
corners  and  bewildering  my  senses.  You  asked 
me  questions  about  him,  and  I  have  been  trying  to 
answer  them."  I  laughed  as  I  flew  to  the  elevator 
to  join  Mr.  Alexander  below. 

We  reached  our  destination  after  a  short  ride, 
and  ascended  the  long  stone  steps.  It  was  a  dingy- 
looking  building,  not  a  regular  apartment  house,  but 
an  old  aristocratic  mansion  converted  into  two  flats. 

I  was  ushered  into  a  quiet  little  chamber,  far 
from  the  one  where  the  crowd  of  guests  were  re- 
moving their  wraps.  I  was  alone  in  the  room  a 
moment  before  entering  the  salon  beyond.  It  looked 
like  a  place  of  magic,  as  I  opened  the  door  a  tiny 
crack  and  peeked  out. 

Mr.  Alexander  caught  me,  and  I  opened  the  door 
wide  and  stepped  bravely  forth.  I  bent  my  eyes  on 
the  ground,  a  habit  of  mine  when  that  shyness,  so 
a  part  of  me,  appears  in  the  presence  of  strangers. 

A  few  steps,  and  I  gained  courage  and  raised 
them.  I  lifted  the  lids  wide  and  they  opened  on 
the  countenance  of  a  tall  dark  man.  His  black  hair 
was  graying  at  the  temples.  His  lips  were  thin,  and 
grave,  and  firmly  set  together.  Each  feature  was 
as  familiar  to  me  as  my  own.  It  was  my  father.  I 
clutched  Mr.  Alexander's  arm. 

"That  —  man  —  there,  who  —  is  he?" 

I  was  a  few  steps  in  front  of  him  and  Mr.  Alex- 
ander could  only  discover  whom  I  meant  by  fol- 
lowing the  direction  of  my  eyes. 


120 kotte  3n 

"The  man  by  the  door,"  I  cried,  "at  the  entrance 
into  the  drawing-room!" 

"There,  he  is  speaking  to  a  lady  at  his  side." 

"Oh,"  answered  my  beaming  companion,  not  no- 
ticing my  excited  condition,  "that's  George  Carton, 
our  painter  and  your  host  of  to-day." 

"And  the  lady?"  I  whispered,  a  terrible  agony 
trembling  in  my  voice.  "The  lady!" 

"His  wife,"  answered  he  innocently. 

I  turned  my  eyes  away,  they  were  wild  and  star- 
ing. My  face  was  deadly  pale. 

"Elsa,  girl,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Mr.  Alex- 
ander now  fully  awake  to  the  trembling  that  had  me 
utterly  in  its  control.  He  put  his  arm  around  me 
and  half  lifted  me  back  into  the  little  room  I  had 
just  left. 

"Shut  the  door  a  minute.  Wait  outside,  wonTt 
you,  Mr.  Alexander?"  I  begged. 

"All  right.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do?"  he 
asked,  his  ruddy  face  full  of  kindly  concern.  "I'll 
come  back  in  a  minute,  Miss  Elsa,  if  you  don't  ap- 
pear. Remember,  I'll  be  right  outside  if  you  want 
me." 

I  could  not  grasp  the  situation  at  once.  My  mind 
groped  in  a  dark  chaos.  I  had  been  hurled  amid 
the  terrible  boulders  unprepared,  I  fluttered  in  the 
darkness,  and  there  was  no  bottom  for  my  feet  to 
rest  upon.  There  could  be  no  mistake.  I  knew 
every  line  of  his  countenance  too  well.  My  father! 
My  father ! 

I  dwelt  on  that  loved  fact,  as  one  will,  before 
peering  into  the  abyss  of  torture.  Cautiously  I  crept 
to  the  edge.  I  looked  beyond  his  dear  eyes,  the 


Cfre 


eyes  we  had  gazed  into  so  often  —  my  mother  and  I. 

I  crept  on  beyond  the  eyes,  past  his  tall  figure, 
and  into  the  very  torture  chamber  of  suffering,  to 
face  —  his  wife. 

My  mother  was  —  oh  !  God,  what  was  it  the  world 
called  my  mother?  His  mistress!  And  I  —  what 
was  I?  God  help  me!  The  child  of  shame! 

The  abyss  closed  around  me  —  closer  and  closer. 
The  cruel  edges  cut  into  my  soft  flesh,  and  it  was 
torn  and  bleeding.  The  child  of  shame?  Poor 
mother  ! 

Tears  had  their  way  —  I  wept.  The  child  in  me 
dying  —  the  woman  born  into  a  world  of  suffering. 


122 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  deadly  faintness  came  over  me  as  I  crept  to 
the  door.  I  knew  it  must  open,  and  that  I  must 
turn  the  knob.  A  hush  was  all  about  me,  the  hush 
of  fatigue.  I  was  suffocating.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  whole  world  held  hard,  cruel  fingers  at  my 
throat  and  would  choke  life  out  of  me.  I  stood 
breathless  before  the  closed  door  as  a  bird  within 
the  leafy  shelter  of  some  tree  ere  it  wings  its  way 
over  the  smoke-begrimed  roofs  of  the  city. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  timid  knock.  I  turned  the 
knob. 

"They  are  asking  for  you,  Elsa,"  whispered  Mr. 
Alexander.  It  was  an  awkward  moment,  and,  man- 
like, he  was  flushed  with  embarrassment.  His  evi- 
dent distress  calmed  the  tumult  in  my  breast. 

"I  was  just  coming — just  coming,"  I  repeated, 
looking  up  at  him,  longing  to  have  a  good  cry  or 
tell  some  one  how  it  hurt.  I  called  upon  every 
power  within  me  to  fly  to  my  aid. 

I  commanded  my  heart  to  cease  its  wild  beating. 
I  pinched  the  color  into  my  cheeks.  One  last  ef- 
fort, and  a  wan  smile  crept  to  my  lips.  He  took  my 
hand  and  patted  it. 

"Poor  child,  you  are  ill.  We  have  worked  you 
too  hard." 

He  took  a  firm  hold  on  my  arm  and  guided  me 
down  the  long  hall  that  opened  into  the  music  room. 


Cfrc  fflleatring 123 

It  was  all  in  gold  and  white.  Beautifully  gowned 
women  were  grouped  here  and  there.  He,  my  fa- 
ther, stood  by  the  piano  as  I  entered.  I  saw  only 
him.  There  was  magic  in  his  eyes,  they  charmed 
me,  and  before  Mr.  Alexander  could  pronounce  my 
name,  my  hand  reached  for  his. 

"This  is  George  Carton,  Elsa — our  artist." 

There  was  no  need  of  pinching  my  cheeks  now. 
They  were  crimson.  My  fingers  rested  in  his 
warm  clasp  for  just  a  moment,  and  when  they  were 
released  a  yearning  to  throw  both  arms  about  his 
neck  nearly  broke  down  the  wall  of  my  control. 
But  the  longing  was  strangled  at  its  birth,  as  he  said 
in  low,  even  tones : 

"My  wife,  Miss  Grier,"  and  gracefully  brought 
me  before  a  lady,  the  centre  of  a  group  by  his  side. 

She  was  a  tall  stately  woman,  and  she  was  beau- 
tiful. Upon  her  white  skin  there  was  no  blemish. 
Not  even  a  line  marred  her  fair  countenance,  her 
eyes  were  clear  and  transparent,  the  problems  of 
life  had  rested  lightly,  their  clear  depths  remained 
placid,  unstirred.  A  wonderful  gown  fell  about 
her.  It  was  soft  gray  and  silver.  Yes,  she  was 
beautiful — but  a  statue. 

Was  I  really  a  part  of  this  glittering  assembly,  I 
asked  myself,  as  I  turned  serious  eyes  upon  her. 
My  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  escaped  them.  I 
bravely  swallowed  the  tears  in  my  throat  that  had 
gathered  there  to  choke  me.  Once  more  my  lips 
moved  and  my  voice  mingled  in  the  conversation. 

Speech  came  slowly  at  first,  as  a  child  stutters 
when  learning  to  talk.  It  was  true,  I  had  been 
hurled  into  a  dark  cavern.  Thrown  amid  harsh 


124 


overhanging  horrors  and  bidden  to  be  calm  and  quiet 
in  the  deep  blackness  where  I  stood,  looking  into  a 
yawning  chasm.  I  must  awake  and  free  myself 
once  more  from  the  jagged  rocks  that  cruelly  cut 
into  my  flesh. 

I  smiled  bravely  into  her  face,  and,  obeying  a 
voice  within  me,  my  words  were  kind.  With  rest- 
less eyes  I  glanced  about  me  as  we  talked.  I  was 
now  in  the  midst  of  a  critical  world.  My  dress 
touched  the  lace  of  its  fair  women,  and  the  men 
looked  upon  me  as  one  of  the  bevy  of  smiling  charm- 
ers that  hovered  around  them. 

Fate  had  guided  me  into  their  midst,  for  the 
woman  within  me  fled  from  this  scene  of  unrest. 
These  smiling  ones,  these  beings  clothed  in  feathers 
and  laces  would  cast  my  mother  forth,  brand  her  an 
outcast.  My  mother  —  who  lived  a  beautiful  life  far 
from  the  haunts  of  men.  She  never  sought  the 
praise  of  the  world  as  she  toiled  on,  pressing  the 
stitches  in  and  out,  holding  her  love  sacred,  to  a 
memory.  My  mother!  Oh,  I  was  wretched  as  I 
stood  there  pale  and  still. 

My  lips  framed  careless  sentences,  but  my  thought 
wandered,  puzzling  over  everything  —  uncompre- 
hending, lost  in  the  tragedy  of  the  situation.  Why 
should  I  grieve?  I  demanded  boldly.  There  seemed 
to  be  two  of  us.  One  the  woman  that  stood  calmly 
waiting  to  add  her  mite  to  this  feast  of  Orpheus,  the 
other  a  spirit  that  questioned  and  would  not  be 
silent.  Why  should  I  grieve?  What  was  there  to 
grieve  about?  My  body  was  straight,  lithe  and 
strong.  My  skin  soft  and  white.  What  had  I  been 
deprived  of,  that  I  mourned? 


Cfte  foUcabing  125 


An  ideal,  perhaps,  yet  not  a  true  ideal  —  that  is 
never  lost.  We  may  throw  aside  its  outer  coverings 
but  the  heart  of  an  ideal  remains.  It  abides  with 
us  forever.  I  was  a  child  of  a  noble  passion.  My 
mother  had  told  me  that,  as  she  had  taught  me  to 
love  my  father,  and  in  that  last  hour  together  had 
she  not  made  me  promise  always  to  love  that  fa- 
ther? Did  she  foresee  this  meeting,  and  had  she, 
all  my  life,  been  preparing  me  for  it? 

How  holy,  sweet,  and  pure  she  looked  as  she  ap- 
peared before  me  there  amid  this  bevy  of  people; 
a  spirit  of  loveliness.  I  knew  there  was  naught  in 
my  heart  for  her  but  love. 

Max  Frieder  was  coming  toward  me.  I  could  see 
him  elbowing  through  the  crowd  and  waving  them 
aside  as  one  does  a  tangle  of  blossoms  in  the  wood. 
There  was  a  deep  earnestness  in  the  grip  of  his  hand 
on  mine.  I  was  glad  to  have  him  near,  and  I  gave 
him  just  a  glimpse  into  my  heart  as  I  welcomed  his 
coming. 

A  glimpse,  not  of  love,  but  of  the  woman  awake, 
and  seeking  her  own.  I  had  no  word  with  my  host 
beyond  his  greeting  on  my  entrance.  But  I  felt 
his  eyes  upon  me,  and  had  caught  their  serious  gaze 
as  I  unconsciously  searched  for  him  when  for  a  mo- 
ment I  lost  sight  of  his  tall  figure.  He  seemed 
drawn  to  me,  and  there  was  a  puzzled  cloud  over 
his  face  as  he  wondered  wherefore?  I  knew  why 
his  eyes  searched  mine.  Dear  father! 

"Are  you  nervous  about  singing,"  said  Max  Frie- 
der, catching  my  wandering  eyes  and  bidding  them 
to  his  own. 

"No,  I  shall  be  glad  to  sing.     I  am  restless.    My 


126 Lotte  3n 

thought  is  riveted  upon  myself,  and  to  sing  will  get 
me  out  of  the  I,  into  another  bigger,  better  being." 

Mr.  Alexander  had  disappeared.  He  had  slipped 
away  when  he  had  seen  me  regain  my  composure. 
The  chatter  of  tongues  still  continued,  and  I,  so  ac- 
customed to  quiet  ways,  fretted  inwardly  at  the  de- 
lay of  the  program.  At  last  a  voice,  a  strangely 
familiar  voice,  spoke.  I  had  heard  that  voice, 
where?  In  another  world,  perhaps,  or  it  had  been 
wafted  to  me  in  my  dreams.  A  voice  strong,  ten- 
der, and  deep — the  voice  of  my  father. 

"May  we  have  your  song  now,  Miss  Grier?"  he 
said,  touching  my  arm  with  the  tip  of  his  finger. 
I  turned  quickly,  and,  giving  a  vague  hint  of  my 
desire  in  a  forced  smile,  followed  him  to  the  piano. 
I  do  not  remember  how  my  song  was  received. 
The  blood  was  dying  my  face  crimson,  I  saw  the 
trembling  of  my  hands.  I  felt  old,  worn,  and  out 
of  tune,  but  I  did  my  best.  I  tried  to  find  the 
thread  of  my  song,  but  I  only  stood  at  a  distance 
and  watched  the  word-picture  my  lips  were  framing 
as  one  apart. 

"Take  me  away!"  I  whispered,  turning  to  Max 
Frieder,  as  the  last  note  echoed  through  the  room. 
"Take  me  home !" 

There  were  gentle  spirit  fingers  drawing  me.  I 
longed  to  make  an  end  of  it  and  go.  Before  he 
could  answer  they  led  him  to  the  piano,  and  I 
nodded  that  I  would  wait  until  he  had  finished  his 
part  of  the  program.  I  slipped  into  a  tiny  oriental 
room  opening  near  where  I  stood.  He  lifted  to  his 
shoulder  his  violin  just  as  I  found  a  chair  and 
dropped  into  its  comfort.  I  had  never  heard  Max 


Cfre  fflleatung 12? 

Frieder  play.  At  the  first  drawing  of  the  bow 
across  the  strings  a  nervous  tremor  passed  through 
me,  then  a  quietness  penetrated  my  whole  body.  I 
was  lulled  into  forgetting. 

He  sent  quivering  through  the  strings  a  tender 
low  pleading  strain,  as  if  he  would  force  me  bodily 
into  the  control  of  a  vibrant  potency  that  would 
draw  me  as  clay  into  his  arms.  I  could  see  that 
he  was  at  home  in  the  midst  of  these  beautiful 
women.  They  flocked  about  him  as  he  finished.  He 
belonged  to  them,  was  their  idol.  I  should  have 
been  gratified  at  his  eagerness  to  come  to  me,  hid 
away  in  the  dim  light  of  tiny  lanterns,  but  I  was 
only  conscious  of  his  coming,  that  he  might  bear 
me  away  from  the  lights  and  the  constant  din  of 
voices. 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  we  successfully 
slipped  out  into  £he  cool  air.  Ah,  when  the  door 
was  closed  it  shut  away  for  a  moment  a  world  of 
suffering  and  torment.  I  drew  in  the  fragrant  even- 
ing ozone,  and  memory  was  stilled.  My  tongue  was 
generally  busy  when  with  Max  Frieder,  but  there 
was  an  absence  of  word  banter  that  I  knew  he  no- 
ticed. 

He  held  my  arm  close,  perhaps  he  felt  a  yielding* 

about  me  that  was  new  and  strange.     I  yearned  for 

|  sympathy,  comradeship,  and  unconsciously  I  sought 

,  it  from  him.     The  voice  of  his  violin  spoke  to  me 

as  we  walked  along  in  silence,  for  I  had  begged 

him  to  dismiss  the  carriage. 

"Let  us  go  to  my  studio  and  I  will  'brew  you  some 
tea,'  as  an  old  Scotch  friend  of  mine  says."  His 
voice  was  low  and  pleading. 


128 Lofre  Sn 

"That  is  just  where  I  should  like  to  g-o.  How 
did  you  know  ?"  I  cried,  looking  up  at  him,  tears  in 
my  eyes. 

"You  are  worried  about  something,  my  dear  girl," 
he  said,  and  there  was  a  slight  pressure  on  my  arm. 

Sorrow  was  on  my  heart,  but  there  was  beauty 
even  in  sorrow,  if  it  brought  real  sympathy  like 
this. 

"What  sort  of  man  is  our  host,  Mr.  Frieder?"  I 
inquired,  forcing  our  conversation  into  the  themes 
I  longed  to  discuss. 

"Fine  fellow,"  he  answered  heartily.  "Rather 
moody  and  to  himself,  though.  You  don't  get  a 
glimpse  of  him  in  the  social  whirl  once  in  a  century. 
He  paints,  and  paints,  and  then  paints,  and  that's 
all.  He  had  a  severe  illness  years  ago.  He  al- 
most died,  so  I  have  heard.  By  the  way,  He  has  a 
most  interesting  studio,  and  there  is  a  mystery  locked 
away  in  it.  A  mystery  that  every  one  has  tried  to 
uncover,  but  in  vain.  His  mystery  is  shrouded  in 
its  impenetrable  veil." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked,  thoroughly  ex- 
cited. 

"He  has  one  side  of  his  studio  wall  completely 
covered  with  a  heavy  brown  hanging,  that  is  put  on 
in  such  a  way  that  it  defies  all  curiosity  seekers  to 
penetrate  or  lift  even  a  corner.  Perhaps  you  will 
go  there  some  day  and  can  see." 

"But  here  we  are,"  and  we  entered  the  tall  build- 
ing of  the  dear  Professor's  time.  As  we  ascended 
in  the  elevator  the  negro  in  charge  said : 

"Some  one  waitin'  up  there,  Professor." 

"All  right,  Bob,"  he  answered,  as  he  opened  the 


Cfre  g&eatiing 129 

door,  turned  on  the  light,  and  then  excused  him- 
self. 

I  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  leaned  my  head  upon 
the  keys.  The  touch  of  the  ivory  was  cold,  but  I 
went  beyond  the  outer  chilliness  and  found  the  spirit 
hovering  in  the  still  keyboard.  It  was  my  dear  old 
master's  spirit  that  came  out  of  the  cold  and  dark 
to  comfort  me. 

Suddenly  I  hear  angry  voices  in  the  next  room. 
A  woman's  name  was  muttered  in  harsh  guttural 
tones,  and  then  the  words  "Are  you  mad?"  came 
quivering  loud  through  the  thin  partition.  There 
was  a  great  passion  astir.  The  suppressed  sound  of 
weeping  brought  that  to  me,  and  I  raised  my  tear- 
filled  eyes  wonderingly.  My  imagination  knew 
what  was  going  on  behind  the  closed  door. 

"Why  did  you  come  here  ?"  shrilly  questioned  the 
man.  He  veiled  the  sharpness  well.  I  hardly  rec- 
ognized the  hard  tone  to  be  that  of  Max  Frieder 
— but  it  was. 

Indignation  grew  upon  every  feature  of  my  face. 
Determination  stole  into  my  heart.  My  whole  body 
quivered  with  suppressed  emotion.  I  looked  about 
me  vaguely  at  first,  a  terrible  anxiety  in  my  eyes.  I 
could  picture  a  rabbit  caught  in  the  hunter's  trap  do>- 
ing  the  same  thing.  I  could  see  it  pull  and  wrench 
the  wounded  part  free  until  it  succeeded.  I  could 
even  see  the  little  flying  figure,  the  ears  erect,  scud- 
ding cross  country  into  the  shelter  of  the  leafy 
bushes. 

I  found  a  pencil  on  the  corner  of  the  piano,  and, 
taking  down  the  piece  of  music  from  the  rack  where 


130 Lotie  3n 

it  stood,  I  wrote:     "I  still  carry  my  ideals  unsul- 
lied."    From  the  next  room  came  the  words : 

"Here  is  the  money — now  go — you  have  been 
well  paid,  and  I  am  through  with  you.  Do  you 
understand,  Marion,  I  am  through!  When  I  have 
worn  out  a  string  on  my  violin  I  replace  it.  My 
love  for  you  is  worn  out.  Remember  that,  and  never 
come  here  again." 

I  still  held  the  pencil  in  my  hand.  Over  my  face 
a  horror  hung,  a  dread,  an  awful  dread.  I  hastily 
added  the  word,  "Good-by."  I  then  put  the  music 
back  on  the  rack,  and,  like  the  snared  rabbit,  fled. 
Out  in  the  deepening  twilight  I  hurried,  I  feared 
the  tightening  of  some  invisible  forces  about  me,  to 
chain  me  there. 

r  My  heart  ached.  Yes,  I  suffered.  My  ideals 
\  were  bruised  and  bleeding,  but  I  held  them  to  my 
/  bosom  and  hurried  on.  Max  Frieder  was  a  hunter, 
and  I  was  afraid;  even  as  the  rabbit  of  the  sports- 
.  man,  in  the  open  field. 


Cfje  GUeam'ng  m 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

There  was  a  hansom  standing  to  the  right  of  me, 
when  I  reached  the  street.  The  man  lay  sprawled 
out  luxuriously  in  the  high  seat.  He  was  asleep, 
tired  out  from  entreating  the  public  for  its  patron- 
age. The  cabbies  of  New  York  worked  hard,  and 
long  hours  of  service  weakened  their  power  of  en- 
durance. I  called  to  him.  He  was  awake  and  alert 
in  an  instant. 

At  first  he  could  not  follow  the  sound,  and  stood 
up,  peering  eagerly  in  front,  for  the  voice  summon- 
ing him.  Finally  twisting  around  on  all  sides,  he 
spied  me  as  I  waved  my  hand  in  his  direction.  He 
snapped  his  long  whip  to  enliven  his  lanky  beast; 
it  stood  motionless,  dead  to  sight  and  sound,  even 
as  its  master  had  been. 

The  horse  responded  quickly  as  if  accustomed 
to  sudden  flurries  of  excitement  from  the  heights 
above  him.  The  driver  made  a  wide  sweeping  curve 
in  the  street,  and  reached  me  in  less  time  than  I 
can  tell  about  it. 

"I  want  to  drive  for  an  hour,"  I  said  as  he  drew 
the  shambling  animal  to  a  standstill  and  opened  the 
doors  of  the  hansom. 

"Leave  me  at  the  Bijou  after  that,"  I  added,  and 
stepped  in. 

It  was  a  cold  night.     I  reveled  in  the  frosty  chill 


132 Lotie  Sn 

that  was  abroad.     My  cheeks  burned,  and  the  sting- 
ing winds  cooled  their  fever. 

I  cast  no  backward  look  at  the  building  beneath 
whose  shelter  my  dear  master  had  lived.  I  knew  his 
spirit  had  left  the  scenes  of  his  inspiration,  driven 
away  by  alien  hands.  He  loved  harmony,  and  there 
was  no  harmony  beneath  the  roof  of  his  studio.  A 
false  note  had  been  struck,  and  its  vibrant  tone  still 
echoed.  But  I  carried  away  in  my  heart  the  note 
of  memory.  The  winder  of  his  mood  had  taken 
flight  and  left  the  imps  of  darkness  to  reign  alone. 

My  wraps  were  scanty  and  a  shiver  ran  over  me 
as  the  zephyrs  beat  upon  me.  I  still  wore  the  blue 
gown  and  it  was  low  in  the  neck.  The  soft,  thin, 
lacy  material  clung  to  my  shrinking  body  as  if  to 
warm  it  by  nearer  contact.  I  paid  no  heed,  I  was 
absorbed.  There  was  not  a  nerve  or  muscle  off 
guard,  and  I  knew  no  fear  of  the  gale.  Ah,  let  the 
wind  blow !  ( Its  fierceness  was  a  caress.  J)  The  emo- 
tion  stirring  through  my  body  had  taxed  its  en- 
durance  to  the  uttermost,  yet  I  would  not  succumb. 
Let  the  winds  blow! 

The  evening  lengthened,  and  uncaring,  I  leaned 
back  in  the  dirty,  time-worn  vehicle  with  wide  star- 
ing eyes,  seeking  every  object  that  flitted  across 
their  vision. 

We  drove  out  Fifth  Avenue,  people  were  hurrying 
by ;  the  day's  labor  at  an  end,  they  sought  the  shel- 
ter of  home.     A  room  was  home  in  New  York,  and 
why  not?     Love  is  the  wall,  the  roof,  and  the  foun-| 
dation  of  home.     Love  is  not  limited  to  space.     It  \ 
is  not  brick  or  stone,  size  or  shape,  love  is  love,  and  i 


Cfje  ££3eat)ing  133 


/  love  is  home.     This  may  sound  vague  to  others,  but 
\  not  to  me. 

The  street  was  lined  with  carriages.  We  moved 
slowly,  the  horse  turning  in  and  out,  guided  by  skill- 
ful hands  and  the  ever-flourishing  whip. 

I  sat,  my  fingers  interlaced,  my  lips  drawn  tightly  t 
shut,  uncaring.     I  had  no  idea  of  time,  my  brain 
was  tired.     I  was  still  in  the  midst  of  my  pain.   The 
struggle  had  been  intense,  and  now  a  new  patience  , 
•was  settling  over  me.     I  endured  and  was  calm,  yet  \ 
I  wanted  to  move  on  and  on.     I  wanted  to  forget  } 
life  itself,  run  away  from  it,  into  nothingness,  where  ( 
there  was  peace. 

A  sudden  jerk.  The  lanky  animal  responded  to 
the  pulling  of  the  reins  heroically.  He  braced  his 
two  front  legs  sturdily  upon  the  slippery  asphalt, 
and,  drawing  all  fours  bravely  together,  landed  the 
hansom  in  front  of  the  theatre  entrance.  I  raised 
my  eyes,  yes,  it  was  "The  Bijou."  There  were  the 
lights  over  the  sidewalk.  But  what  was  the  name 
of  the  attraction  they  outlined?  I  looked  closer, 
surely  nothing  dimmed  my  sight.  A  dizziness  swept 
over  me.  Was  there  no  forgetting?  The  lights 
spelled  the  title  of  the  play:  It  was  called  "The 
Bastard."  It  looked  different  to-night.  I  saw  it 
for  the  first  time,  it  seemed.  It  was  real  now, 
though  not  the  tragedy  of  a  youth,  but  of  a  mai- 
den. I  rebelled.  I  could  not  go  before  that  rest- 
less crowd. 

They  stood  outside  now  patiently  waiting  their 
turn  at  the  little  window.  They  pressed  hurriedly 
through  the  door  of  the  theatre.  It  was  late,  but  I 
had  no  consciousness  of  that.  I  was  reaching  out 


134 ILotte  3n 

in  the  darkness  to  find  courage,  or  a  deeper  horror. 
A  light  that  would  raise  me  into  the  heights,  or  cast 
me  deeper  into  the  hell  of  despair.  The  burden  was 
becoming  too  heavy  and  I  was  sinking  beneath  it, 
when  the  face  of  Charley  Grey  rose  before  me  in  all 
the  strength  of  its  noble  manhood. 

It  was  a  face  like  my  father's  because  the  courage 
and  the  truth  were  the  same  behind  the  masque  of 
life — of  different  countenance,  but  of  the  same  mold 
in  manhood.  Charles  Grey !  What  would  this  hurt, 
that  had  come  to  me  mean  to  him?  Would  it  les- 
sen me  in  his  eyes?  Oh,  God,  have  mercy!  I  cried 
in  my  heart.  I  called  to  the  cabby  to  drive  on,  and 
he  did  as  he  was  bidden.  What  would  they  do  back 
there  in  the  theatre  ?  There  could  be  no  play  with- 
out me.  It  was  too  late  to  fill  my  place.  I  could 
see  them  hurrying  frantically  about,  and  what  would 
"he"  think?  I  was  a  coward,  turning  my  back  at 
the  first  approach  of  the  enemy.  The  goodness  of 
Mr.  Alexander  flashed  before  me.  The  long  days 
of  study  with  the  dear  Professor  in  the  old  house 
let  furnished — his  birthplace — Charles  Grey's! 

Then  I  was  flung  back  on  myself.  I  must  minister 
unto  my  need,  there  was  no  hand  near  to  ease  my 
pain.  Oh!  I  could  not  be  a  coward — I  would  re- 
turn, I  would  be  brave.  My  mother  had  ever  been 
strong.  I  was  the  child  of  an  inspired  love,  not  the 
offspring  of  a  weak  passion.  I  would  go  back. 
Perhaps  the  darkness  was  but  the  shut  door  into  the 
garden  of  rest. 

I  called  nervously  to  the  cabby  above.  I  poked 
my  fingers  through  the  little  window  over  my  head 
and  said: 


C&e  GHeam'ng  135 


"Hurry  back  to  the  theatre,  quick  —  quick!  Do 
you  hear,  quick  !"  The  old  horse  did  his  best.  One 
clumsy  hoof,  then  the  other,  beat  upon  the  pavement. 
With  a  jerk  of  the  reins  we  once  more  pulled  up 
before  The  Bijou.  The  crowd  had  thinned  out. 
"Oh,  how  late  could  it  be?"  I  cried,  as  I  opened 
the  door.  My  purse  —  where  was  my  purse  ?  I  had 
not  taken  it  to  the  musical,  knowing  of  no  need. 

I  bade  the  man  wait,  and  hurried  into  the  theatre. 
Mr.  Alexander's  office  was  empty.  I  frantically  ap- 
proached the  man  at  the  window  selling  tickets,  but 
just  then  the  clerk  of  the  office  came  running  to- 
ward me.  I  explained  my  need,  and  then  flew 
round  to  the  stage  entrance.  I  had  hardly  reached 
my  dressing  room  when  Mr.  Alexander  came  in 
without  even  knocking  and  quite  breathless. 

"You  have  given  us  such  a  fright,  Elsa,"  he  cried. 
His  ruddy  face  was  really  pale,  and  he  smoked  furi- 
ously upon  the  stump  of  a  cigar. 

"The  orchestra  has  commenced  the  overture,"  he 
said.  "I  telephoned  everywhere.  Can  you  make 
it,  child?"  he  asked,  in  a  shrill,  unnatural  voice. 
"Can  you  make  it?  And  where  were  you?" 

"To-morrow,  my  friend  —  to-morrow,"  I  an- 
swered to  his  last  question.  "To-morrow  you  shall 
know." 

"But  would  that  to-morrow  come?"  I  said  in- 
wardly. He  fidgeted  about,  poor  man,  completely 
unnerved.  Wilbur  Knowles  came  to  my  rescue,  and 
I  pulled  him  impulsively  into  the  hall.  Had  he  seen 
beyond  the  deceitful  calmness  I  had  assumed  into 
my  quivering  soul  ? 


136 LOBC  Kn 

"I  am  here  now,  Mr.  Alexander,"  I  called  out. 
"Don't  worry,  I'll  be  ready  on  time!"  and  I  shut 
the  door  upon  both  of  them.  Liza  had  my  shoes 
off  and  my  coat  had  fallen  to  the  floor. 

I  was  terribly  calm.     "The  blue  dress  is  all  right, 
Liza.     The  audience  will  like  the  change,  don't  you  , 
think?"  I  asked,  in  as  careless  a  voice  as  I  could 
summon.     "Just  hand  me  a  wet  towel  and  I'll  have 
my  make-up  on  in  a  minute." 

"You  did  give  us  a  scare,  though,  Miss  Elsa,"  she 
persisted. 

"I  am  ill,  Liza.  I  thought  I  could  not  do  my 
part  to-night ;  but  I  will,  and  you  will  help  me,  won't 
you  ?"  In  my  need  I  touched  her  arm,  and  my  lips 
trembled. 

She  saw  that  I  was  unhappy,  and  her  fingers  flew 
to  do  my  bidding.  The  paint  and  powder  hid  the 
troubled  lines  in  my  forehead.  The  weariness  be- 
neath my  eyes  was  erased  as  by  magic,  but  the  ex- 
pression in  their  depths  remained,  as  if  to  mock  at 
artificiality. 

"Have  you  had  supper,  Miss  Elsa  ?"  timidly  asked 
Liza,  her  dark  face  full  of  anxiety. 

"I  could  not  eat  it,  my  good  woman.  It  would 
choke  me." 

She  felt  her  mistake,  and  hurriedly  put  two  let- 
ters into  my  lap. 

"I  brought  them  over  from  the  hotel,"  she  said,  a 
little  gladness  irradiating  her  countenance.  I  seized 
them  fiercely.  The  brush  and  comb  fell  to  the  floor 
in  my  eagerness.  I  drew  in  a  deep  sigh.  It  was 
the  touch  I  needed  in  the  dark,  where  I  stood,  a 


Cfre  meaning  137 


word  from  my  mother,  and  it  had  come.  What  mat- 
tered now?  The  garment  of  my  despair  fell  away, 
while  I  opened  and  read  her  message  to  me.  But  I 
could  not  read  it  all,  for  the  orchestra  had  stopped 
playing. 

Outside  my  door  I  could  hear  the  gentle  hurry- 
ing of  feet  to  the  wings.  I  was  ready,  too,  and 
among  them  as  the  great  curtain  slowly  rolled  to 
the  top.  1  was  there,  the  central  figure  in  the  gay 
feasters.  The  garden  scene  had  lost  none  of  its 
fascination,  life  looked  as  beautiful  amid  the  roses 
as  it  did  yesterday  at  the  matinee  —  yes,  there  was 
even  a  sweeter  fragrance  amid  the  blossoms.  Or 
was  it  my  imagination?  My  feet  trod  the  same 
paths,  but  some  of  the  petals  had  fallen.  It  was  the 
blossoms  I  trampled  beneath  my  feet  that  filled  the 
air  with  fragrance. 

"Verily,"  I  sighed,  "the  heart  is  like  a  flower 
which  yields  not  its  sweetness  till  it  be  crushed." 

The  play  was  over.  I  stumbled  into  my  dressing 
room.  An  awful  fatigue  gripped  my  being.  I  was 
dizzy  —  a  black  monster  rose  before  me.  It  would 
clasp  me,  I  could  feel  its  long,  powerful  arms  reach- 
ing —  reaching.  It  looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes 
and  seemed  to  say  "You  are  mine!"  I  clutched  at 
the  back  of  a  chair,  my  eyes  grew  big  with  terror. 
My  tongue  was  paralyzed,  I  could  not  speak.  The 
blood  had  left  my  veins,  I  was  cold.  Oh,  it  was  so 
cold,  and  the  long  arms  came  nearer  and  nearer] 
A  great  terror  was  upon  me. 

The  weight  of  mountains  bore  me  down.  I  could 
not  scream,  I  could  not  weep.  Suddenly  the  black 
monster  crept  away,  a  soothing  voice  calmed  my 


138 Lone  3(n 

fear.  The  lids  lay  heavy  over  my  eyes,  and  the 
voice  of  despair  that  cried  aloud  in  my  heart  was 
silent.  Then  there  was  nothing,  no  pain,  no  more 
struggling,  only  peace.  I  had  fainted. 


Cfje  G3eatring  139 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  shock  of  my  irregular  birth  had  come  to  me 
like  a  heavy  blow  from  a  hand  I  loved.  It  was  life, 
the  fate  of  life  that  had  struck  me  speechless.  I 
spent  hours  and  days  thinking  about  it.  I  stared  at 
the  facts  in  blank  consternation.  I  could  not  realize 
it.  I  could  not  understand.  My  father  lived  but  a 
few  blocks  away.  I  loved  him  with  all  my  heart, 
yet  I  could  not  touch  his  hand.  I  could  not  tell  him 
of  her,  back  in  the  cottage.  How  patient  and  good 
she  was  and  how  her  fingers  ached  wi.th  the  in  and 
out  of  the  stitches.  The  joy  of  finding  him  I  must 
chain  in  my  heart,  never  set  it  free  to  throb  in  the 
air  about  him — my  father. 

I  sobbed  these  days  of  unrest.  I  sobbed  the  life 
out  of  me.  What  was  the  matter  with  me?  I 
asked  myself  this  question  many  times.  But  no  an- 
swer came.  Was  I  going  mad  that  I  could  not  find 
the  light  again?  I  struggled  bravely  with  my 
thoughts,  endless  thoughts  that  came  to  sap  my  en- 
ergy. 

I  awoke  one  cloudless  morning,  still  trembling 
over  what  I  had  learned.  My  being  was  filled  with  a 
longing  to  go  to  my  father  and  claim  him  and  tell 
him  of  her.  I  even  made  plans  of  how  to  carry  it 
out,  and  the  words  I  would  speak.  Why  should  I 
waste  a  day?  I  was  nearly  twenty  years  old  and 


140 £ose  3n 

had  never  known  the  touch  of  a  father's  hand  upon 
my  life, — only  the  picture  to  fill  the  place  of  flesh 
and  blood. 

I  tried  to  drink  in  the  mood  of  the  sunbeams, — 
their  golden  light  lay  over  me  as  a  blanket  of  love. 
But  I  could  not  give  myself  into  their  keeping.  My 
face  was  turned  to  where  the  shadows  fell.  I  was 
still  amid  the  storm  waves,  and  my  vessel  had  not 
even  sighted  land. 

The  problem  of  life  still  faced  me  and  was  still 
unsolved.  The  wings  of  my  soul  were  being  tried 
for  the  first  time.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life 
I  walked  in  the  valley  of  sorrow,  and  I  was  alone 
there,  though  I  had  fluttered  as  a  bird  over  its  low 
windings,  when  a  child,  as  I  sat  with  my  mother  in 
close  communion. 

A  valley  is  full  of  richness.  Was  it  possible  that 
my  valley  would  yield  a  richness  to  me?  My  soul 
was  wakened  into  real  living.  Life  was  all  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  I  had  thought  to  find  it.  It  was 
a  struggle  of  souls,  and  at  once  I  knew  the  fierce 
battle  my  mother  had  faced.  Must  I  yield  all  my 
dreams?  I  held  a  bit  of  paper  in  my  hand.  It  was 
a  line  from  Charles  Grey,  and  read : 

"Will  you  drive  with  me  at  three  o'clock?" 

I  had  seen  a  great  pleading  in  his  eyes  since  the 
night  I  fainted.  It  fascinated  me.  A  whole  week 
had  passed  since  then.  I  was  ill,  yet  I  would  not  let 
them  know,  but  in  his  eyes  something  said : 

"Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"How  could  I  tell  him?"  I  said  aloud,  in  answer 
to  my  whispered  words.  I  could  feel  life  slipping 
away  from  me  and  hid  in  my  room  that  none  should 


Cfre  ftOeatring 141 


suspect,  except  when  I  was  at  the  theatre.  I  felt  the 
whole  world  was  watching  and  waiting  the  result. 
I  was  ashamed  of  the  weakness  that  held  me,  and 
some  hours  I  rose  up  free  and  happy-hearted,  but 
sank  down  helpless  after  only  a  step. 

To-day  I  would  make  another  effort.  I  would  go 
with  Charles  Grey  into  the  world  of  action,  and  the 
glad  out  of  doors  might  change  the  range  of  my 
vision. 

"May  I  come  in?"  Mrs.  Alexander  smiled  at  me 
from  the  hall  and  stretched  out  her  arms  to  me  as 
she  spoke.  I  rested  my  head  on  her  shoulder  as  I 
whispered  my  answer : 

"Of  course,  you  are  always  welcome,  dear  friend." 

I  gave  her  hand  a  gentle  pressure,  and  said,  "I 
am  going  to  drive  with  Mr.  Grey,"  she  smiled,  and 
a  merry  twinkle  in  her  eye  made  the  smile  full  of 
meaning.  I  blushed,  and  a  lightness  of  heart  came 
in  the  tinge  of  color  that  spread  over  my  cheeks. 

"I  just  wanted  a  look  at  you,  child.     I'll  be  off 
now.     It's  nearly  three,  and  you  are  not  ready." 
My  visitor  opened  the  door  and  was  gone.     I  didf 
not  try  to  detain  her,  I  liked  being  alone  these  daysj 

******* 

Every  minute  for  the  next  two  hours  I  breathed 
in  ecstasy.  Some  drives  are  different  from  others. 
My  drive  seemed  filled  with  constant  surprises.  They 
crept  before  my  vision  and  tempted  forth  my  eager 
enthusiasm.  My  eyes  feasted  upon  the  winding 
road-ways,  the  sudden  wooded  spaces  now  bare  of 
leaves,  and  the  quick  turns  into  newer,  sweeter 
glimpses  of  nature, — a  nature  emptied  of  all.  Cen- 


142 Lotie  3n 

tral  Park  was  beautiful  beneath  the  cover  of  late 
fall. 

Memory  is  the  yellowing  page  of  past  joys.  We 
write  upon  the  pages  of  to-day  that  we  may  con 
them  over  to-morrow.  I  printed  the  sweetness  and 
charm  of  this  drive  on  the  memory  scroll  of  my 
heart.  Some  hour  I  could  live  it  all  over  again 
when  the  edges  were  worn  .and  frayed. 

My  companion  was  silent,  letting  me  drink  in  the 
tonic  of  the  fragrant  zephyrs.  We  entered  a  road 
called  "The  Retreat."  It  was  guarded  at  the  en- 
trance by  two  stately  elms.  They  were  tall  and 
soldier-like  of  aspect,  fit  sentinals  to  so  enticing  a 
pathway. 

"The  fairies  surely  hold  nightly  revels  here,"  I 
cried  aloud,  drawn  out  of  all  bitterness  of  thought. 

All  around  us  lay  the  city,  but  it  seemed  a  great 
way  off.    The  trees  standing  stripped  of  their  glory 
were   even    more   beautiful    than   when   the   leafy 
splendor  was  upon  them.     The  sky  was  above  me, 
the  real  rugged  soul  of  nature  was  about  me,  at  my 
side  sat  Charles  Grey,  and  at  that  moment  I  was  con- 
tent.   We  had  seen  very  little  of  each  other  of  late,;' 
but  he  had  grown  into  my  life.     I  could  feel  the! 
tender  shoots  of  friendship  for  him  taking  root  in 
my  heart.    Would  that  friendship  flower  into  love?) 
I  was  glad  that  I  had  come  out  into  the  sunshine' 
with  him.     The  ideal  in  "him"  would  not  crumble 
in  my  hands. 

I  turned  my  face  toward  him  as  the  thought  came 
and  met  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  I  had  never  seen  there 
before.  They  were  off  guard ;  I  was  confused  and 
rearranged  my  hat  to  avoid  his  discovering  my  em- 


Cbe  S&eafcing  143 

barrassment.  He  started  to  speak  the  language  of 
his  eyes,  but  thought  better,  for  his  words  changed 
to  a  simple  announcement : 

"We  have  arranged  to  visit  the  studio  of  George 
Carton,  Miss  Elsa.  Will  you  join  the  group?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  I  responded,  so  quickly  that  I  im- 
agined he  maryeled  at  my  impulsiveness.  "I  want 
to  know  him  better,"  I  went  on.  He  turned  his  head 
in  my  direction.  I  could  feel  his  eyes  upon  me,  and 
then  the  horse  was  suddenly  urged  forward. 

He  was  confused  at  my  interest  in  the  poet- 
painter.  There  was  a  throbbing  in  my  heart.  It 
was  like  a  madness  that  called  for  expression. 

"By  the  way,  I  believe  he  has  some  pictures  in 
the  Metropolitan.  Would  you  like  to  stop  and  see 
them,  Miss  Elsa?"  he  asked,  as  we  came  in  sight 
of  the  museum. 

"Oh,  yes,  do  stop,  I  love  pictures!"  I  cried.  It 
was  growing  late  and  we  hurried  faster,  that  we 
might  just  get  a  glimpse.  He  put  his  horse  in 
charge  of  a  negro  boy,  and  we  ascended  the  long 
flight  of  steps.  It  was  nearly  closing  time,  and  we 
sought  only  the  paintings  we  had  come  to  find. 
They  were  in  the  centre  gallery.  Two  large  can- 
vasses, one  was  a  field  of  clover  with  the  rain  upon 
it.  I  felt  the  wetness  of  the  rain  as  I  stood  there. 
The  pale,  tiny  clover-blooms  drooped  their  heads  in 
the  down-pour.  There  was  just  a  hint  of  brightness 
through  the  clouds,  as  if  the  artist  could  not  resist 
adding  a  dash  of  hope  to  the  charm  of  an  otherwise 
gloomy  scene. 

The  other  picture  was  an  oak  tree  with  the  prom- 


144 Lotie  3n 

ise  of  a  beautiful  spring  all  about  it.  But  the  tree 
was  barren  and  dead  in  the  midst  of  bud  and  leaf. 
There  was  a  loneliness  about  the  picture  that  af- 
fected me  strangely.  It  had  a  tinge  of  fulfillment 
in  the  color  strokes,  and  the  harmony  of  the  arrange- 
ment was  perfect,  but  I  felt  the  artist  himself  was 
the  dead  tree.  It  was  a  hopeless  picture  to  me,  for 
the  great  tree  permeated  the  scene.  The  spirit  of  the 
lonely  man  had  gone  quivering  into  it,  and  it  spoke 
to  me.  It  stood,  a  soul  that  would  never  know  an- 
other spring,  although  nature  was  abloom  upon 
every  side. 

"We  will  have  to  go,  Miss  Elsa,"  said  my  com- 
panion. "There  comes  the  guide  to  tell  us  it  is  clos- 
ing time." 

He  took  my  arm  and  led  me  away.  I  could  feel 
the  tenderness  of  his  heart  toward  me  in  the  touch 
of  his  hand.  He  bent  closer  till  his  face  almost 
touched  mine.  A  softened  mood  was  upon  him,  was 
love  bidding  his  lips  speak?  I  could  not  let  thernf 
utter  those  words — to-day.  Not  to-day  my  heart 
cried — perhaps  never! 

I  shook  myself  loose  from  his  care  and  forced  the 
cheer  into  my  countenance,  and  flung  frivolous 
words  at  him  mercilessly  until  the  seriousness  left 
his  eyes.  A  dumb  hurt  expression  flitted  over  his 
face,  and  he  mutely  questioned  my  attitude.  Why 
would  I  not  let  him  speak?  I  could  see  that  he 
was  misled,  and  I  was  sorry,  yet  I  could  not  listen  to 
love  words  now.  I  was  not  able  to  tell  my  story 
to  him — yet.  I  would  never  risk  another  hour  with 
him  alone,  I  promised  myself,  as  I  took  his  hand  in 
farewell  at  the  door. 


CDe 


Mrs.  Alexander  was  in  the  hotel  office  when  I 
entered,  and  we  went  in  to  dinner  together. 

"Elsa,  do  you  want  us  to  send  for  your  mother?" 
she  asked,  as  we  sat  down. 

"You  are  ill,  I  know  it,"  she  urged. 

"Oh,  no,  don't  do  that!"  I  cried,  thoroughly 
alarmed. 

"You  must  not  even  write  her  about  your  fears. 
You  won't,  will  you?  It  would  frighten  her.  Oh! 
you  will  not,  dear  Mrs.  Alexander?"  I  begged. 

"But  you  are  so  pale  and  troubled-looking,  Elsa. 
It  worries  me,"  she  answered.  "I  want  to  comfort 
you  in  her  stead,  but  I  can't,  it  seems,"  she  went  on. 

"No  one  can  help  me,  my  friend,"  I  answered.  "I 
will  be  myself  in  a  few  days." 

I  ordered  a  hearty  supper,  and  laughed  over  it 
in  my  old-time  way  to  prove  the  truth  of  my  words. 
My  mother  must  not  know  I  was  aware  of  my 
father's  presence,  I  was  certain  of  that.  A  great 
fear  was  upon  me  lest  in  my  letters  there  had  crept 
a  line  to  worry  her.  I  returned  to  my  room  and 
wrote  to  her  at  length  before  I  left  for  the  theatre. 
I  went  into  raptures  over  the  bricks  and  stones  of 
the  great  city.  I  raved  about  the  hurrying  throngs, 
and  ended  the  last  pages  by  asking  all  sorts  of  ques- 
tions about  Betsy,  so  eager  was  I  to  cover  up  any 
little  careless  word  I  might  have  penned  in  my  half 
dazed  condition  of  the  past  week.  The  clock  chimed 
seven  as  I  folded  the  letter  and  hid  it  in  the  white 
envelope.  I  then  rapped  at  Mrs.  Alexander's  door, 
and  together  we  went  to  the  theatre. 


146  Lotoe 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  first  shock  of  finding  my  father  was  over; 
yet  I  still  groped  in  the  darkness  and  sought  wildly 
for  the  light.  (  I  was  a  girl  capable  of  looking 
squarely  in  the  face  the  problems  of  life.)  I  had 
been  reared  close  to  the  beat  of  my  mother's  heart, 
and  this  had  given  me  a  power  to  reason  and  decide 
far  beyond  my  years.  I  meant  to  live  my  life  as 
she  had  done ;  her  pose  was  strong  and  self-reliant. 
I  was  courageous,  yet  I  trembled  in  fear  that  my 
despair  would  overwhelm  me.  A  larger  vision  of 
life  was  before  me,  and  I  wanted  to  grow  into  its 
bigness. 

It  was  the  day  of  our  visit  to  the  studio  of  George 
Carton.  As  I  sat  in  his  presence  it  was  the  artist  I 
saw  before  me,  the  father  was  lost.  From  the  midst 
of  fur  rugs  Mrs.  Alexander  beamed  at  me.  A  pro- 
voking little  laugh  curved  her  lips  as  she  watched 
me  with  narrow,  knowing  eyes  that  seemed  to  say, 
"Have  you  added  a  married  man  to  the  list  of  your 
conquests  ?" 

She  was  not  the  only  one  that  stood  apart  and 
wondered  at  the  admiration  our  host  gave  to  me. 
Charles  Grey  was  moody  and  silent,  did  he  so  mis- 
understand the  artist's  admiration  for  me  that  he 
was  unhappy?  The  great  room  in  which  the  group 
of  congenial  spirits  was  gathered  seemed  dominated 


Cfte  ££leatring 147 

by  a  strange  fascination.  It  was  a  little  world  of 
its  own,  endowed  with  its  own  wonderful  law  of 
attraction,  as  if  under  the  rule  and  sway  of  unseen 
forces. 

A  mysterious  charm  lay  over  the  most  trivial  de- 
tails of  the  place.  The  light  falling  through  the 
small  paned  windows  shed  an  illusive  color  of  ro- 
mance over  the  couch  and  the  rugs,  and  also  the  men 
and  women  grouped  within.  At  once  they  were  of 
the  elements  that  controlled.  The  books  on  the  table 
had  their  niche,  and  the  pictures  were  the  charm  of 
the  place,  for  in  them  the  soul  of  the  artist  moved. 
One  could  forget  all  the  discord,  all  the  shams  of 
life  here,  the  soul  was  freed  to  soar  to  the  heaven 
of  its  dreams. 

With  that  strange  hunger  of  youth  for  knowl- 
edge I  bent  over  each  picture  of  a  portfolio.  The 
artist  was  patient  with  every  detail,  and  himself 
explained  the  mysteries  of  color  and  illustrated  on 
a  small  box  cover  tricks  of  his  brush. 

"It  seems  as  if  I  had  known  you  always,  Miss 
Grier,"  he  insisted,  as  he  let  his  fingers  slip  care- 
lessly around  the  palette  that  he  held.  "Your  face 
perplexes  me — I  might  say  it  haunts  me." 

A  ripple  of  laughter  interrupted  him.  Wilbur 
Knowles  was  giving  a  scene  from  a  vaudeville  sketch 
he  had  just  written.  It  was  full  of  rare  comedy,  and 
his  little  audience  was  convulsed.  The  merriment 
drew  us  into  the  midst  of  the  circle.  A  glow  had 
sprung  into  my  eyes  from  my  father's  question,  and 
in  another  instant  I  should  have  claimed  him,  but 
for  this  interruption.  His  query  lay  on  my  heart 
so  tenderly,  like  a  child  begging  to  know.  Wilbur 


148 Lone  3n 

Knowles  was  a  privileged  friend.  I  almost  felt  his 
familiarity  intrusive,  yet  this  might  have  been  be- 
cause I  was  shut  out  from  their  dear  comradeship. 

He  told  us  of  the  ghosts  that  haunted  the  room, 
and  advised  us  seriously  to  get  away  before  sun- 
down. His  voice  was  full  of  pathetic  pleadings  of 
high  and  low  intonations.  His  humorous  face 
watched  our  host  attentively  as  he  flung  recklessly 
forth  the  daring  words.  I  expected  my  father  to 
rise  in  his  indignation  and  turn  us  all  out.  But  his 
glance  was  forbearing,  and  if  he  flinched  at  the  ref- 
erence to  the  brown  curtained  wall,  there  was  no 
expression  of  it  upon  his  face.  Each  feature  re- 
mained impenetrable,  and  the  quivering  sensitive 
heart-anguish  was  unsuspected  by  all  save  myself. 
His  eyes  laughed  good-naturedly,  but  the  mouth  was 
firm  and  unsmiling. 

"Well,  it's  no  business  of  ours,"  continued  Wilbur 
Knowles,  "whether  the  lady  or  the  tiger  shall  step 
from  behind  the  denim,  eh,  Carton  ?" 

The  hysterical  humor  I  had  worked  myself  into 
subsided.  Wilbur  Knowles  was  a  wit,  and  I  could 
not  help  responding  to  his  banter. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off,  Carton,"  said  our  funmaker, 
and  the  echo  of  unholy  laughter  followed  him  as  the 
door  closed. 

From  a  little  room  off  the  studio  came  the  faint 
aroma  of  boiling  coffee,  and  the  tension  from  which 
I  had  suffered  relaxed.  Our  host  left  us  for  a  mo- 
ment and  presently  pulled  the  curtains  apart  and 
invited  us  into  a  cozy  little  nook.  I  sat  by  his  side, 
and  opposite  me  was  Charles  Grey. 

When  I  raised  my  eyes  to  his  I  saw  he  was  watch- 


149 


ing  me  intently  with  a  puzzled  reproachful  look. 
"You  are  not  playing  with  me?"  the  look  said.  But 
the  uneasiness  of  his  stare  made  no  impression  upon 
me,  lost  as  I  was  in  the  consciousness  of  a  new  re- 
lationship. This  was  my  father,  and  I  was  happy. 
He  was  mine,  and  I  laughed  softly  to  myself. 

I  was  too  absorbed  in  the  analysis  of  my  own 
feelings  to  store  away  the  bits  of  humor  that  passed 
over  our  cups.  It  was  all  there  though,  the  joking, 
the  quick  repartee  and  I  sat  in  its  very  midst  and 
let  the  tragedy  slip  away.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  it  could  assume  so  comfortable  an  exterior 
viewed  at  nearer  range. 

"What  a  luxury  not  to  be  a  slave  to  the  moving 
hands  on  the  clock's  face,"  said  Mr.  Alexander  in- 
terrupting my  retrospection.  His  eyes  wandered  to 
an  ancient  time-piece  in  the  far  corner  of  the  studio, 
as  he  finished  his  remark. 

"Of  course  you  would  find  the  ticker,  my  dear," 
said  his  wife,  in  a  half-scolding  way.  "All  work 
and  no  play,  you  know"  —  she  pouted. 

"What  is  your  part  in  the  evening's  performance, 
my  dear  madam,  the  lead  or  the  ingenue?"  he  re- 
torted playfully. 

"I  do  the  ingenue  for  you,  John  Hamilton  Alex- 
ander !"  and  she  waxed  warm  in  her  role  of  offended 
dignity.  We  all  laughed.  They  were  a  devoted 
couple,  this  plain  middle-aged  pair,  and  the  raillery 
was  good  fun.  There  was  no  covert  meaning  under- 
neath the  words,  and  its  sharpness  could  be  thor- 
oughly enjoyed. 

"I  rebel,"  I  cried,  throwing  myself  headlong  into 


150 Lotos  3n 

the  argument;  "I  rebel,  I'll  not  go.  How's  that, 
Mrs.  Alexander,  for  a  strong  support?" 

"You  shall  be  tried  and  sentenced  for  stirring  up 
strife,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Alexander,  pulling  down 
his  vest  front,  to  give  emphasis  to  the  scorching 
words. 

"You  will  sentence  me  to  what,  John  Hamilton  ? 
Life  imprisonment  with  you?  Oh,  how  dreadful! 
That  the  full  limit  of  the  law  should  be  enforced 
upon  a  helpless  female,  that  she  should  be  thrust  into 
such  prison  walls!  What  are  we  coming  to?" 

The  firm  lines  around  the  mouth  of  our  host  grad- 
ually relaxed  as  we  conversed.  Then  came  a  genuine 
brightening  up  of  his  countenance.  A  tender  light 
crept  into  his  eyes  that  I  loved.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
picture  were  before  me.  The  likeness  of  twenty 
years  ago  stood  out  clear  and  recognizable. 

"One  last  lifting  of  the  cup,  friend,  and  we  will 
take  ourselves  off,"  said  Mr.  Alexander.  The  negro 
boy  poured  once  more  the  fragrant  beverage,  and, 
seeing  Mr.  Alexander's  anxiety  rising,  I  took  the 
lead  and  made  ready  for  departure. 

It  was  but  a  short  call,  yet  I  had  seen  my  father. 
Another  side  of  his  character  had  been  revealed — 
the  real  man  in  the  midst  of  his  work,  the  man  that 
had  won  the  heart  of  my  mother.  'Twas  the  artist 
who  had  entertained  us,  and  I  felt  I  had  ventured 
just  a  step  into  his  world. 

Where  this  step  would  lead  me  I  did  not  ask.  I 
only  knew  that  my  feet  must  push  on  in  his  direc- 
tion. As  we  stood  at  the  door  I  looked  back  into 
the  room.  If  I  could  but  stay  behind  and  sit  yonder 
in  that  shaft  of  light  falling  so  lovingly  upon  the 


Cfte  aaeatifng  151 


weaving  of  the  rug  —  if  I  could  but  recline  there  at 
his  feet  and  tell  him  of  her!  The  room  spoke  to 
me,  as  if  supplicating,  nay  entreating  me  to  linger. 
"Was  he  a  happy  man  ?"  I  found  myself  asking  the 
question  almost  aloud  as  I  let  the  rest  go  down  the 
hall  without  me.  I  went  over  to  the  wall  that  a  last 
view  of  a  small  print  of  Rosetti's  might  live  in  my 
memory.  It  charmed  me,  and  I  started  when  a  voice 
over  my  shoulder  said  : 

"A  wonderful  symbol  of  divine  love  —  isn't  it, 
Miss  Grier?" 

"Love  is  holy,  don't  you  think?"  I  asked,  not 
noticing  his  question. 

"Almost  too  holy  ever  to  have  perfection  in  this 
world,  my  child,"  he  answered,  a  tenderness  in  his 
voice.  "Dante  approached  his  through  an  angel. 
Love  only  lay  over  his  pathway  as  a  light  that  led 
steadily  up  and  up.  Perhaps  it  is  best  so,  —  but  the 
way  is  lonely  sometimes  with  the  light,  always  be- 
yond. You  noticed  the  stretch  of  brown  denim  over 
there,  didn't  you,  Miss  Grier?"  he  said,  turning  from 
Rosetti's  poppy-strewn  chamber  of  dreams  and 
pointing  to  the  side  wall. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  and  I  blushed.  It  was  the 
wall  of  mystery. 

"Of  course  you  have,  how  could  it  go  unnoticed 
after  that  imp  of  a  funmaker,  my  friend  Knowles, 
drew  such  pointed  attention  to  it.  But  I  don't  mind 
him,  Wilbur  is  all  right,  if  he  is  a  bit  hasty.  His 
hair  is  red,  you  know,"  and  a  slight  amused  curv- 
ing of  his  lips  changed  the  whole  expression  of  his 
face. 

"Behind  that  curtain  is  a  picture,  Miss  Grier.    No 


152 Hotie  3n 

eye  has  ever  seen  it,  since  the  hour  I  looked  upon  it 
finished.  It  is  called  a  mystery  by  my  friends. 
Miss  Grier,  if  you  will  come  here  to-morrow  morn- 
ing I  will  unveil  the  picture  for  you.  Will  you 
come?" 

I  stood  transfixed  before  him.    I  could  not  speak. 

"Perhaps  you  wonder  why  I  disclose  my  secret 
to  you.  I  will  be  frank.  I  do  not  know  why. 
There  is  a  voice  within  that  bids  me  draw  the  veil 
aside.  Perhaps  it  is  the  hour  for  the  child  of 
my  past  energy  to  stand  forth  revealed.  Who  can 
tell  the  subtle  impulse  within  us  that  prompts  our 
actions?  Will  you  come?" 

I  was  hurrying  to  the  door  as  he  spoke.  A 
thought  of  the  waiting  ones  below  had  dawned  upon 
me,  and  I  caught  my  breath  quickly  at  what  they 
might  think  of  my  tardy  coming.  I  trembled  as  I 
held  out  my  hand  in  farewell,  and  the  words : 

"I  will  come,"  fell  from  my  lips.  Soft  as  blown 
petals  flutter  to  the  earth  they  echoed  through  the 
room,  "1  will  come." 


C&e  Cleaning  153 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Mr.  Alexander  was  drawing  his  face  into  fretful 
grimaces  when  I  joined  them  in  the  hall  below. 
He  walked  toward  the  door  and  back  again  in  a  rest- 
less manner,  that  told  me  how  irritated  he  had  be- 
come over  the  delay.  He  felt  impelled  to  wait  my 
coming,  but  the  forced  waiting  made  the  nerves 
nearly  jump  out  of  his  skin.  Poor  Mr.  Alexander! 
I  hurried  faster,  as  I  saw  him  tramping  about  so 
irritably.  I  could  not  read  the  expression  on  his 
good  lady's  face.  It  appeared  shadowed  by  a  frown, 
but  there  was  a  kindly  light  shining  in  her  eyes  that 
gave  the  lie  to  the  frown. 

Charles  Grey  stood  a  statue  by  the  door.  I  ap- 
proached them  like  a  culprit,  a  thoroughly  penitent 
one,  too.  The  full  measure  of  dissatisfaction  is  not 
easy  to  hurl  at  a  wrong  doer  under  such  circum- 
stances. We  paired  off  and  hastened  into  the  street. 
I  pretended  not  to  notice  the  humor  of  my  party, 
but  with  a  forced  gaiety  in  my  voice  tripped  along, 
wholly  unconscious  of  guilt. 

My  escort  was  moody  and  preoccupied.  We 
finally  reached  the  hotel  an  ill-assorted  group.  Mr. 
Grey  lifted  his  hat  at  the  hotel  entrance.  Although 
he  pushed  open  the  door  for  me,  I  had  grown  an- 
noyed at  his  ill  manners  by  this  time  and  gave 
him  only  a  tilt  of  the  head  as  he  turned  into  the 


154 jLotie  3n 

street  once  more.  Mr.  Alexander  had  thawed  out. 
The  brisk  walk  and  his  dear  lady's  busy  tongue  had 
worked  the  change,  or  was  it  the  thought  of  dinner? 
By  the  time  we  separated  at  the  elevator,  his  genial 
smile  had  returned. 

I  went  to  my  room,  the  walk  had  quite  unnerved 
me.  I  had  grown  to  love  this  little  retreat  of  mine. 
I  put  off  the  garment  of  the  world  here ;  its  worries 
fell  away.  I  looked  around  as  I  entered.  A  still- 
ness hovered  over  the  place.  Everything  was  in 
perfect  order  in  the  tiny  room.  How  white  and 
clean  was  the  bed,  the  regular  ticking  of  the  clock 
inspired  a  poise  that  I  longed  for.  That  one  search- 
ing glance  brought  me  peace,  and  quietness  lay  on 
my  heart  as  a  blessing. 

I  had  hardly  closed  the  door  and  breathed  in  the 
still  comfort  offered  me,  when  a  knock  opened  it 
again.  The  bell-boy  stood  framed  before  me,  and 
said  as  my  eyes  questioned : 

"A  lady  to  see  you,  miss." 

"To  see  me?"  I  cried. 

"Yes,  miss,  and  she's  been  waitin'  a  long  time," 
he  answered. 

"What  does  she  look  like  ?"  I  asked.  The  thought 
came  perhaps  my  mother  was  below.  I  grew  red 
and  white  by  turns,  my  feelings  rising  recklessly 
between  hope  that  it  was  she,  and  fear  that  perhaps 
it  was  not. 

"Her  looks,  boy?  Tell  me  about  her  looks;  her 
face,  her  dress,  her  hair.  Quick,  answer  me!"  I 
cried,  now  thoroughly  aroused. 

"Really  want  to  know,  miss?"  he  smiled,  and  the 


Cfre  Wearing  155 


stretch  of  mouth  looked  hideous  to  me.  Why  would 
he  grin  in  that  awful  way,  I  said  to  myself. 

"Well,  she's  a  crummy  sort,  miss,  and  that's  no 
lie,"  was  the  information  he  finally  offered,  and 
then  added: 

"Tall  and  angular  looking,  miss,  and  say,  her 
hair  is  surely  oiled.  Gee,  but  it's  shiny  and  black 
and  as  flat  to  her  head  as  the  scales  on  a  fish. 

"Oh,  it  is  Mrs.  Aiken  !"  I  cried. 

"That's  it.  She  pushed  that  name  at  me,  but  I 
forgot,"  he  cried.  "I  ain't  so  bad  at  description,  am 
I?"  he  asked.  "I  hit  it  off  swell.  You  got  the  pho- 
tograph instanter,  didn't  you?" 

I  was  too  excited  to  answer.  I  only  urged  him 
to  hurry  and  to  tell  her  I  would  be  right  down. 

"All  right,  miss  —  I'm  off.  But  say,  she's  got  a 
gown  on  that  would  set  you  crazy,  one  of  them 
changeable  plaids.  They's  the  latest  figure,  though  ; 
my  sister's  got  one,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  do  my 
bidding.  "She  ain't  got  the  figger  to  wear  it, 
though.  It  takes  the  slender  kind  of  make  up."  I 
hardly  caught  his  words,  for  I  had  gone  into  the 
room,  leaving  the  door  ajar. 

I  went  over  to  the  glass  and  looked  critically  at 
my  face.  The  dark  rings  beneath  my  eyes  must  be 
erased.  A  good  report  of  my  looks  must  be  taken 
back  to  my  mother.  It  took  but  a  moment  to  dash 
cold  water  into  my  eyes.  The  chilly  plunge  brought 
the  life  and  brightness.  I  then  returned  to  the 
mirror  once  more  and  added  some  of  the  mysteries 
that  I  had  learned  from  my  make-up  box. 

A  quick  repinning  of  my  hat,  a  turn  of  the  key  in 
the  door,  and  I  was  in  the  hall.  A  few  steps  and 


156 Lone   3n 

the  elevator  ascended  at  the  push  of  the  button.  A 
quick  descent  and  an  eager  rush  for  the  parlor  on 
the  first  floor.  When  I  first  entered  the  room  no 
one  was  to  be  seen.  I  started  to  explore,  and  there 
around  the  corner  from  the  door  sat  Mrs.  Theodore 
Aiken  resplendent  in  the  changeable  silk  gown. 

She  held  out  both  arms,  and  I  went  into  them  as 
if  I  had  always  known  the  sweetness  of  their  em- 
brace, such  kindly  feeling  does  absence  from  home 
prompt  in  the  heart. 

"My  mother,  what  of  her?"  I  cried,  drawing 
away  from  the  tenderness  of  her  arms.  I  looked 
into  her  face  eagerly,  "Is  she  well." 

"She  is,  my  dear  child,  and  sent  you  this  with 
her  love,"  was  the  reply.  A  small  package  was  put 
into  my  hands.  My  fingers  closed  over  it  fondly, 
but  I  was  full  of  questions.  I  would  wait,  to  know 
its  contents. 

"Why  did  you  come?"  I  asked,  "and  when  did 
you  come?" 

"One  question  at  a  time,  my  child,"  she  answered. 
"That  husband  of  mine  came  here  on  business,  and 
I  just  calmly  announced  to  him  I'd  come  along,  too. 
He  was  that  taken  back  at  my  decision  that  he 
couldn't  refuse,  and  so  here  I  am.  You  know,  my 
dear,  I  wanted  to  see  you  in  my  girl's  finery." 

A  quick  filling  of  her  eyes  told  how  her  heart 
still  cherished  the  memory  of  her  lost  darling.  "I 
just  had  to  come,"  she  repeated,  and  she  smiled 
through  the  tears. 

"You  shall  see  me,"  I  said  eagerly.  "I  will  wear 
the  prettiest  of  the  gowns,  and  I  will  do  my  best  to 
bring  her  image  before  you." 


fflleatifng 157 

"It  will  be  almost  like  having  her  come  back, 
won't  it,  Miss  Elsa?"  she  asked. 

"I  hope  so,  dear  friend,"  I  answered. 

"I  left  Mr.  Aiken  at  a  meeting  with  some  men. 
I  thought  maybe  you  and  I  would  take  a  bite  to- 
gether. He  promised  to  join  me  at  the  theatre," 
she  went  on. 

"Oh,  that  will  be  fine!"  I  cried.  "We  will  go 
down  stairs  and  eat  dinner  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander." 

We  found  them  in  their  own  particular  corner. 
As  we  entered  the  room  they  were  poring  over  the 
menu.  Their  surprise  at  seeing  Mrs.  Aiken  equaled 
mine.  It  was  a  merry  party  that  gathered  around 
the  table.  Mrs.  Aiken  beamed  at  me,  and  the 
flowers  in  her  bonnet  nodded,  as  she  waxed  eager  in 
her  conversation. 

After  dinner  we  walked  slowly  to  the  theatre. 
We  had  much  to  talk  about.  Her  words  were  like 
a  balm  to  my  sore  heart,  they  recalled  to  me  my 
home.  It  was  almost  like  seeing  my  mother,  and  a 
great  longing  filled  my  heart  to  hear  her  voice. 

It  was  dark  in  the  narrow  passage  when  we  en- 
tered the  theatre.  We  groped  our  way  in  almost 
utter  blackness. 

"The  electrician  has  forgotten  the  hour,  I  guess," 
I  said,  keeping  tight  hold  of  Mrs.  Aiken's  hand  to 
guide  her  in  my  footsteps.  When  I  reached  the 
dressing-room  door  I  turned  on  the  light,  and  my 
snug  quarters  looked  attractive  after  the  gloom  of 
our  entrance. 

The  busy  work  behind  the  curtain  bewildered  her, 
yet  she  liked  the  attention  she  inspired.  There  was 


158 £obe  3(n 

a  happy  light  over  her  countenance,  and  when  I 
donned  the  pink  dress,  her  hands  trembled  as  they 
lay  folded  upon  the  soft  silk  of  her  gown. 

I  came  toward  her  for  nearer  inspection,  she  fin- 
gered my  skirt  like  a  child.  She  loved  each  shim- 
mering fold  and  caressed  them  as  one  does  living 
things. 

"You  had  better  go  out  front  now,  Mrs.  Aiken," 
I  said.  "That  is  the  last  call.  Here  is  Mr. 
Knowles.  You  will  take  her  around,  won't  you?" 
I  asked. 

"Must  I  go?"  the  poor  lady  murmured.  "I 
won't  see  you  again,  child.  We  return  on  a  late 
train.  I  wish  I  could  stay  another  day." 

"Oh,  do!    I  cried,  interrupting  her. 

"You  see,"  she  answered,  "it's  been  a  long  time 
since  I  have  stirred  away  from  home.  I  would 
hate  to  have  my  old  man  return  without  me,  and  he 
says  he  must  get  back." 

"Tell  my  mother  how  I  look,  won't  you?"  I  asked, 
"and  take  this,  and  this,  and  this  to  her,"  I  cried,  as 
I  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 

Mr.  Knowles  interrupted  our  parting  abruptly  and 
led  her  away.  But  there  was  something  to  happen 
that  would  make  me  forget  the  good  lady  out  front. 
I  tried  to  find  her  amid  the  sea  of  faces,  but  could 
not.  I  turned  to  my  part  disappointed,  to  discover 
Charles  Grey  still  thoughtful  and  morose.  He  car- 
ried the  gloom  of  the  afternoon  into  the  play. 

During  the  first  scene  his  lips  spoke  words  of 
love  to  me,  but  there  was  a  hollow  echo  in  the  tender 
avowal  of  his  passion.  It  nettled  me.  I  knew  Mrs. 
Aiken  was  watching  every  movement,  and  I  wanted 


Cfre  ftOeatifng  159 


to  do  my  best.  The  enthusiasm  would  not  come.  I 
could  not  get  into  the  proper  pitch. 

I  tried  in  every  way  to  bewitch  him,  and  finally 
felt  him  soften.  I  never  played  the  role  better. 
Suddenly  at  the  end  of  the  scene  he  followed  me 
into  the  wing,  and  said  : 

"Elsa,  I  love  you.  That  was  no  fake  scene  to 
me.  It  was  real."  His  eyes  dilated,  he  caught  hold 
of  my  hands  and  held  them  closely. 

"Look  at  me,  dear,"  he  said,  a  great  gentleness 
in  his  voice.  "I  need  you,  Elsa.  The  world  is 
full  of  women,  but  I  want  only  you,  dearest." 

A  strange  wist  fulness  came  to  me  with  his  words, 
and  for  one  moment  I  let  my  heart  leap  into  my 
eyes. 

"I  must  go!"  I  cried,  trying  to  pull  my  hands 
away. 

There  was  a  moment  of  delay.  My  face  was 
burning  with  the  truth  of  my  feelings  toward  him, 
but  I  could  not  let  my  lips  speak  them.  There  was 
a  barrier  between  us.  I  made  another  gesture  to 
go,  but  he  still  held  my  hands.  It  was  dark  where 
we  stood,  and  his  whispered  words  fell  on  my  ear 
like  music.  Yet  I  forced  myself  away  and  left  him 
standing  there  alone. 

If  I  could  but  pierce  the  future,  I  sobbed  to  my- 
self as  I  crept  into  my  dressing-room.  To  have  a 
heart  that  reaches  out  for  its  mate  and  to  be  cast  by 
fate  into  the  chamber  of  silence,  —  to  have  a  wild 
longing  thrill  through  my  being,  and  day  by  day  to 
strive  and  struggle,  to  sink  back  exhausted! 

I  rushed  through  the  days  in  my  thought,  they 
were  endless,  and  there  was  no  love  to  shed  its  light 


160 


along  the  path.  Once  again  I  tried  to  understand 
the  conflicting  emotions  that  struggled  within  me. 
Once  again  I  responded  to  the  suppressed  call  that 
echoed  through  the  empty  corridors  and  stood  wait- 
ing my  next  entrance. 


C&e  ftOeafcfng  iei 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

I  had  been  unkind  to  the  man  I  loved.  For  the 
first  time  I  ^acknowledged  passionately  to  myself 
that  I  loved.  The  sound  of  the  words  fell  strangely 
upon  my  ears  as  I  whispered  them  to  my  heart. 
The  man  I  loved.  A  sigh  fell  from  my  lips.  He 
was  not  near,  only  love  was  beside  me — love, 
tangible  and  sweet. 


'to1 


"Then  lifting  up  mine  eyes  as  the  tears  came, 
I  saw  the  angels,  like  a  rain  of  manna, 
In  a  long  flight,  flying  back  Heavenward ; 
Having  a  little  cloud  in  front  of  them, 
After  the  which  they  went  and  said,  'Hosanna' ; 
Then  Love  said,   'Now  shall  all  things  be  made 
clear.' ' 

I  loved.  I  boldly  proclaimed  my  love.  My  heart 
sent  quivering  its  messages  of  rapture.  I  loved. 
"Now  shall  all  things  be  made  clear,"  I  repeated 
again,  and  yet  again.  The  words  lingered  with  me 
to  put  courage  into  my  faltering  steps.  I  was  limp 
and  helpless — yes — and  restless  to  get  through  the 
evening. 

In  the  next  act  dear  Mrs.  Aiken  was  completely 
forgotten.  That  she  was  watching  me  came  as  a 
thought  that  had  no  meaning.  I  moved  through  the 


162 Lotoe  3n 

scenes  as  one  asleep.  A  dull  apathy  was  upon  me. 
I  was  a  machine,  all  the  parts  were  well  oiled. 
Everything  was  in  running  order.  My  hands  moved 
at  my  bidding,  my  feet  walked  in  the  direction  they 
were  guided.  My  whole  being  responded  to  the 
wonderful  mechanism  of  mind,  but  my  heart  was  in 
a  heaven  of  dreams. 

I  had  watched  for  the  coming  of  love  into  my 
life.  Love  was  with  me  and  for  one  moment  had 
lifted  me  on  the  tender  intonations  of  his  voice, 
into  a  world  where  angels  wing.  I  drew  in  a  quick 
breath  and  stood  rigid  with  anticipation,  not  know- 
ing what  my  next  meeting  with  Charles  Grey  would 
mean  to  me.  My  mother!  Unconsciously  she  was 
beside  me — not  forgotten  in  this  real  trial  of  my 
youth,  not  relegated  away  from  the  path  of  my 
life ;  there  beside  me  she  stood,  visioned !  Her  pres- 
ence was  as  real  to  me  as  the  scent  of  a  rose-jar 
whose  fragrant  odors  rise  in  the  air,  when  the  cover 
is  lifted. 

Once  again  I  seemed  to  hear  her  say,  "My  little 
baby  you  are  all  I  have,  you  are  all  I  can  hope  to 
have  of  love.  How  can  I  give  you  up — send  you 
out  into  the  world?  How  will  it  treat  you?  It 
mustn't  hurt  my  little  one." 

It  was  hurting  me.  It  was  cruel,  this  world  that 
I  had  entered.  I  had  come  clothed  with  youth  to 
worship  at  its  shrine.  I  had  brought  a  heart  un- 
sullied, the  sweet  odors  of  the  woods  clung  to  my 
dress,  and  my  hands  were  full  of  blossoms,  but  they 
were  withering.  Would  the  world  scorch  them? 
Would  they  die? 

"O   Mother!"   I   cried,   "your  prayer  is   unan- 


Cfte  GUeatring  163 

swered."  Suddenly  her  voice  came  to  me  as  once 
again  I  waited  my  summons  before  that  sea  of  faces. 

"There  is  nothing  to  fear — out  there,"  said  the 
voice.  "He  is  in  the  world  of  people — your  father 
— nothing  will  harm  you  there,  in  his  world." 

How  tenderly  the  words  floated  by  me,  wafted  to 
me  in  my  loneliness  over  the  mountain  of  my  de- 
spair. Dear  Mother! 

My  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  Wilbur  Knowles. 
He  stood  back  of  me  quite  a  minute  before  speak- 
ing. I  felt  his  presence,  but  gave  no  sign  until  a 
laugh  burst  from  his  lips. 

"Such  a  pensive  maiden,"  he  cried,  "dreaming  of 
God  knows  what!" 

I  smiled  up  at  him.  I  was  deeply  fond  of  my  stage 
director.  He  had  been  patient  and  kind  in  the  hours 
when  I  had  tried  to  follow  the  flights  of  his  imagina- 
tion. How  often  he  had  freed  his  thought  and 
tossed  us  all  as  feathers  into  a  breathing  living 
world  born  of  his  enthusiasm.  We  had  been  mov- 
ing lifeless  before  him,  and  he  was  the  power  that 
sent  us  glowing  into  the  picture  we  were  portraying. 
I  was  fond  of  him,  was  glad  of  his  presence  now. 

"What  would  you  think  of  me  if  I  should  really 
tell  you  of  what  my  dreams  are  woven?"  I  asked, 
facing  him  direct,  my  eyes  full  of  many  questions. 
There  was  a  pathetic  arching  of  my  eyebrows,  and 
my  voice  stirred  him  deeply.  I  could  feel  the  cur- 
rent of  his  sympathy  for  the  unknown  sorrow  that 
clutched  at  my  heart. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "I  would  have 
your  dreams  happy  ones,  my  little  Elsa."  There 


164 Lone  3n 

was  a  quick  filling  of  my  eyes  with  tears  at  his 
words. 

"Is  not  faith  a  strange  virtue?"  he  went  on.  "I 
have  had  the  faith  to  hope  that  some  day  a  little 
girl,  such  as  you,  would  bring  love  into  my  life — 
faith  to  believe?  How  oft  I  hear  its  echo  over  the 
far  hills,  and  I  am  there!  Down  into  the  valley  it 
glides,  and  I  am  here !  In  and  out  among  the  crowd 
that  keeps  life  throbbing  in  the  city  streets.  I  have 
pressed  on,  grown  weary  of  the  path,  yet  ever  on, 
and  on,  my  faith  lifted  on  high." 

His  voice  died  away  with  the  words,  and  I  looked 
into  his  eyes  and  knew  how  it  was  with  him. 

"Did  you  ever  find  her,  Mr.  Knowles?"  I  asked. 
.    "Yes,  Elsa,  only  to  lose  her,"  he  answered. 
/     "And  you  have  kept  your  faith  ?"  the  words  were 
spoken  in  a  whisper,  as  if  I  were  in  a  holy  place 
/  and  too  much  prying  into  its  secrets  would  dese- 
crate. 

"I  have  kept  my  faith  and  still  press  on  toward 
love,"  he  answered. 

There  was  an  invisible  tie  between  us.  Suddenly 
my  faith  responded  to  his,  and  I  said : 

"My  dream  was  as  yours,  and  I  will  have  faith, 
even  as  you.  The  world  is  full  of  happiness,  and 
it  is  for  you  and  me !" 

It  was  peace  that  touched  my  soul  as  I  left  him 
to  answer  my  cue.  I  paused,  frightened.  There 
sat  Charles  Grey  in  a  large  armchair  by  the  fireside. 
The  orchestra  was  playing  a  low  melody.  All  was 
still  and  tranquil  upon  the  stage,  and  in  the  dark  in 
front  I  knew  many  countenances  were  eagerly 
watching  the  unwinding  of  the  events  of  the  play. 


Clie  ftOemring  165 


How  vividly  stood  out  the  characters  of  the  play. 
The  old  man  just  buried,  the  sorrowing  son  and 
the  letters,  mysterious  and  dreadful,  that  had 
stripped  her,  the  mother  of  the  bereaved  boy,  of 
purity  and  truth.  Once  again  as  that  first  time  back 
in  my  home  village,  I  was  eager  to  enter  and  lend 
my  aid  to  the  lonely  youth.  My  face  was  flushed 
as  I  stepped  before  the  footlights  —  my  entrance 
brought  forth  a  gratifying  applause,  and  I  waited 
until  it  subsided.  I  had  won  admirers,  and  it  pleased 
me. 

I  realized  now  that  the  play  I  had  entered  into 
for  the  first  time  in  my  home  village  had  become  a 
part  of  my  life  —  was  my  life.  It  had  been  but  a 
play  then,  yet  I  had  thought  it  real.  The  sorrow, 
the  puzzling  of  that  poor  bereaved  boy!  It  had 
become  mine  now.  By  magic  each  event  was  poig- 
nant with  meaning  that  pointed  at  me.  I  was  Hul- 
bert,  the  miserable  son,  grieving  over  his  birth  and 
the  loss  of  an  ideal.  I  would  make  Charles  Grey 
know  that  it  was  for  me  that  he  must  sorrow.  I 
was  the  one  irregularly  born,  though  my  mother  had 
not  sinned. 

I  would  make  it  plain  to  him  and  then  let  his 
love  decide.  I  was  grateful  for  the  stage  setting  of 
green  life  about  me.  Once  again  I  went  to  the  table 
as  he  had  asked  me  to  do  many  nights  before,  and 
the  eager  crowd  awaited  me  again.  The  letters  were 
open  that  would  disclose  his  birth,  the  youth  of  the 
play.  I  read  and  re-read  them  and  tremblingly 
glanced  his  way.  Still  following  the  cues  of  the 
plot,  I  reached  his  chair-back,  and,  leaning  over, 
kissed  his  forehead. 


166 Lone  3In 

"Now  I  can  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you,  Hul- 
bert,"  I  repeated.  "I  love  you  with  all  my  soul, 
with  all  my  being,"  and  then  leaning  closer,  I  whis- 
pered, "I,  too,  was  born  as  the  youth  of  the  play, — 
will  you  understand?" 

The  last  few  words  were  not  in  the  lines.  I  spoke 
them  impressively.  It  was  to  the  creature  of  some 
writer's  imagination  that  I  spoke,  but  Charles  Grey 
received  the  message.  It  was  for  him.  The  vast 
audience,  my  identity  as  Helene,  the  sweetheart  of 
Hulbert  in  the  drama  forgotten,  I  was  living  my 
life,  he,  my  beloved,  must  know  of  the  obstacle  be- 
tween us,  and  I  hoped  the  awkward  sentence  would 
disclose  the  truth. 

The  words  had  a  far-away  sound.  Had  I  spoken 
them  ?  Had  he  comprehended  ?  The  curtain  slowly 
descended.  An  overpowering  desire  for  flight  was 
upon  me,  and  before  he  could  detain  me  I  was  gone. 
I  rushed  into  my  dressing-room  and  tore  myself  free 
from  my  raiment,  sent  Liza  to  call  a  cab,  and  with 
orchestra  still  playing,  I  was  away  beneath  the  dark 
sky  of  night.  I  had  unveiled  my  secret  before  him, 
and  I  was  terror-stricken,  sick  with  fear,  but  he 
knew,  Charles  Grey  knew. 


Cfte  Sacking  167 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

That  night  I  thought  morning  would  never  come. 
Morning,  whose  dawn  would  send  over  the  horizon 
of  the  dire  blackness  that  enveloped  me,  a  little  ray 
of  light.  Morning,  whose  song  birds,  astir,  would 
twitter  and  trill  with  eager  voices  in  the  silence  of 
my  despair.  What  hope  had  I,  that  a  new  morning 
would  ever  rise  to  send  bright  rays  into  the  gloom 
where  my  eyes  looked?  I  had  broken  through  the 
spell  of  control  that  had  held  me.  Events  were 
whirling  me  beyond  my  depth. 

The  stillness,  the  calm  respose  of  night  seemed 
unending  as  I  lay  feverish  and  wakeful.  I  stared 
out  at  the  sky,  the  few  stars  that  rose  above  my 
window  flickered  like  a  candle  in  a  dark  room,  and 
my  thoughts,  unbidden,  approached  the  threshold  of 
to-morrow.  As  the  night  had  deepened  and  I  tossed 
in  anguish  upon  my  bed,  a  fury  grew  upon  me.  I 
became  a  creature  swept  away  by  events  outside  of 
myself.  I  did  not  like  being  hurled  along,  controlled 
by  unseen  hands.  I  would  be  master  of  my  own 
fate. 

Unconsciously  I  pushed  the  fiends  back,  that  they 
should  not  impel  me  on,  on,  at  their  own  will.  I 
would  rise  out  of  my  weakness  and  face  bravely  the 
result  of  my  rash  words.  Why!  why!  had  I  tit- 
tered them  ?  I  cried  aloud.  No  answer  came,  I  was 


168 kotie  3n 

forgotten.     The  world  was  asleep,  and  tears  filled  [ 
my  eyes  as  I  lay  wide-eyed  and  lonely  in  my  bedJ 
I  was  but  an  atom,  and  there  were  millions  upon 
millions  of  atoms  in  the  universe. 

One  could  lose  the  path  and  lie  forgotten  amid 
the  briers.  I  sobbed.  It  was  all  over  now,  the 
sweet  hope  that  had  led  me  on  dreaming  through  the 
days.  Why  should  it  be  over?  I  sighed.  If  he 
loved  me — why?  (Could  man's  love  rise  to  the 
heights  of  real  testing  ?$  I  would  know,  the  dawn 
would  unfold.  The  curtain  that  fell  between  our 
souls  would  be  lifted,  we  would  face  the  naked 
facts,  and  I  should  know. 

The  world  might  point  its  fingers  of  scorn,  but  if 
the  arms  of  my  beloved  were  about  me  there  would 
be  no  dread  in  my  heart.  I  could  rise  above  its 
criticism  and  look  down  from  the  heaven  of  my  joy 
upon  the  folly  of  unthinking  ones.  As  separate 
beings  they  were  helpless,  it  was  the  united  laughter 
of  scorn  that  had  power,  and  Charles  Grey  and  I 
together  could  face  that  force  undaunted.  Was  his 
love  big  enough  to  take  my  hand,  go  our  way  and 
face  only  the  path  ahead  where  to-morrow,  divine 
and  pure,  made  the  worry  of  to-day  a  vision,  but 
seen  through  half-blind  eyes?  I  wanted  his  love — 
God  knew  the  hungry  ache  in  my  heart.  Thus  the 
night  crept  slowly  on.  Gradually  the  blackness  was 
lifted  from  the  window-pane  and  the  dawn  crept  to 
the  edge  of  the  sill  as  if  begging  admittance.  Such 
a  pale  pure  light,  so  new  to  life  that  it  still  had  the 
hint  of  the  Glorified  Radiance. 

It  found  me  weary  and  unresponsive.  I  even 
stole  out  of  bed,  drew  the  shades  close,  and  then 


Cfje  fflleartng 169 

turned  my  face  to  the  wall.  Tired  nerves  relaxed 
as  the  full  realization  came  that  I  must  find  rest  ere  . 
the  sunlight  flooded  my  room.  What  a  terrible  pun- 
ishment is  meted  out  to  us  when  tired  eyes  upon 
the  threshold  of  sleep,  weary  utterly  for  the  uncon- 
scious drooping  of  eyelids,  yet  cannot  close.  Then 
when  the  lids  yield  and  press  over  the  eye-balls,  to 
pray  for  sleep,  for  utter  oblivion,  yet  to  lie  ever 
>'  awake — awake! 

How  dire  the  calamity  that  brings  about  such  con- 
ditions !  It  was  noon  when  I  awoke.  Upon  the  wall 
over  my  bed  there  lay  a  dim  sickly  glow.  The  sun- 
light through  the  curtains  was  yellow  and  pale.  I 
felt  like  a  mummy  peeking  out  of  his  tomb.  I  extri- 
cated myself  from  the  myriad  weavings  of  thought 
that  had  bound  me  ere  sleep  had  overtaken  me.  I 
knew  how  those,  shut  away  from  the  clear,  sweet 
rapture  of  day  must  feel. 

I  sent  the  curtains  flying  to  the  top  edge  of  the 
window-panes,  and  a  glorious  radiant  light  flooded 
the  place.  The  charm  of  the  tender  sky  was  upon 
everything.  I  then  loked  at  the  clock  for  the  sec- 
ond time.  Was  it  really  noon?  Yes,  the  big  hand 
pointed  directly  to  twelve.  My  promise  to  visit  the 
studio  of  my  father  flashed  across  my  mind.  Could 
I  go?  He  had  expected  me  in  the  morning.  Per- 
haps the  afternoon  would  do  as  well. 

I  longed  to  see  him,  there  was  a  yearning  within 
that  called  me  to  his  presence.  I  dressed  slowly,  and 
as  I  put  the  finishing  touches  to  my  hair  the  vigor 
of  the  new  day  was  upon  me.  I  had  the  cafe  nearly 
to  myself,  when  I  entered.  I  enjoyed  the  prospect 
from  the  window  of  the  hurrying  throng  along  the 


170 £otte  3n 

streets.  There  was  a  real  interest  in  my  heart  as  I 
sent  my  eyes  searchingly  down  the  long  columns  of 
the  morning  paper.  The  toying  with  my  knife  and 
fork  amused  me,  so  differently  do  events  turn  upon 
us  under  the  broad  sunlight  of  day. 

As  I  sipped  my  coffee  there  were  healthy  thoughts 
stirring  through  my  mind.  I  faced  the  horror  of  the 
night  clothed  in  the  garb  of  my  youth,  and  there  was 
no  dismay  upon  my  countenance.  I  was  just  dipping 
my  fingers  into  the  finger  bowl,  when  a  couple  at 
the  next  table  attracted  my  attention.  She  was  a 
timid,  meek  little  woman.  A  sort  of  far-away  echo 
of  the  man  opposite  her.  He  was  a  big,  well-fed 
creature,  flashily  dressed,  a  satisfied  expression 
beaming  from  his  eyes.  Her  flashiness  was  faded, 
as  if  the  worn  out  part  of  his  garment  had  fallen 
upon  her. 

Her  figure  was  dull  and  spiritless.  She  was  his 
echo.  All  individuality  was  lost  in  the  superior 
quality  of  his.  He  ordered  steak,  she  echoed,  "steak 
by  all  means,  John."  No  wonder  he  leaned  back 
and  surveyed  the  room,  looking  beyond  her  to  ex- 
plore. She  was  an  open  book  to  him.  There  were 
no  hidden  corners  to  penetrate.  She  had  given  with- 
out measure  and  he  was  surfeited. 

They  were  hopeless,  and  my  glance  passed  on  to 
another  couple  on  an  angle  from  the  table  where  I 
sat.  They  were  young  because  of  the  animation 
that  lit  up  their  countenances.  But  the  man  had 
traveled  the  highway  of  life  perhaps  forty  years, 
while  his  companion  was  surely  thirty-five.  They 
bent  toward  each  other  in  earnest  conversation. 
Their  eyes  sparkled,  they  made  gestures  with  their 


Cfre  SQemring  171 


hands  and  their  forms  expanded.  The  waiter  stood 
patiently  near,  on  the  alert  for  the  first  lull  in  the 
conversation.  He  held  the  menu  card  extended  al- 
most touching  the  man's  ear. 

His  efforts  were  futile.  It  was  laughable,  and  I 
smiled.  Finally  the  waiter  took  a  step  nearer,  and 
said  in  loud,  persuasive  tones  : 

"Beg  pardon,  monsieur,  ze  order.  Voulez-vous  ze 
fish  or  ze  meat?" 

The  man  waved  him  aside.  I  smiled  to  myself. 
It  was  a  play,  and  I,  an  appreciative  audience.  Con- 
sciousness of  the  spiked  coat  beside  them,  now 
dawned  upon  the  couple.  They  extricated  them- 
selves from  the  maze  of  conversation  only  to  become 
just  as  earnest  over  the  list  of  tempting  viands  on 
the  menu  card. 

They  were  truly  alive,  and  the  joy  of  living  was 
upon  them.  It  was  all  very  entertaining,  this  study 
of  faces,  but  I  must  go.  A  letter  must  be  written, 
there  must  be  a  song  or  two  gone  over,  before  I 
could  free  myself  and  keep  my  promise  to  George 
Carton.  The  tension  of  the  preceding  night  had 
settled  into  something  like  a  calmness,  before  the 
routine  of  the  day.  The  quick  beat  of  my  heart  was 
stilled  ;  my  nerves  were  quiet  though  weak  and  un- 
certain. 

"God  was  still  in  the  heavens,  all  was  well  with 
the  world." 

Two  hours  later  and  I  was  upon  the  street,  one 
of  the  crowd  whose  feet  tramped  swiftly  over  the 
pavements.  A  glow  of  color  suffused  my  counte- 
nance. I  hardly  recognized  myself  as  the  same  half 


173 Lone  3n 

frantic  creature  that  had  rushed  from  the  theatre 
through  the  night. 

Mr.  Carton's  studio  was  high  in  the  clouds,  in  the 
top  story  of  the  building.  I  knocked  timidly  at  the 
door.  The  dark  skinned  youth,  who  had  served  us, 
opened  it.  I  entered  silently,  my  foot  falls  made  no 
sound.  The  throbbing  life  in  the  city  streets  was 
lost  here.  I  had  stepped  into  the  heart  of  the  Ori- 
ent. The  rugs  with  the  tiger  heads  glowered 
fiercely  at  me.  The  windows  were  shaded  with  a 
woven  fabric  of  silk  and  the  chain  of  many  colors 
added  a  subtle  spell.  It  mantled  everything,  the 
mystery  of  many  climes  lived  in  the  place. 

"Is  Mr.  Carton  in?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  miss,  he  is  painting  in  the  next  room.  I'll 
tell  him,  miss,  that  you  are  here.  Just  be  seated." 

There  was  a  sun  room,  as  he  called  it,  opening  out 
of  the  main  studio.  He  had  told  me  of  painting 
certain  pictures  there.  I  took  off  my  jacket,  found 
a  comfortable  chair,  picked  up  a  book  lying  on  the 
table  and  waited.  The  book  was  a  volume  of  Keat's. 
I  turned  the  pages  found  the  poem  "Lamia"  and 
read.  Hermes,  his  flight  and  search  for  love  fas- 
cinated me,  as  I  re-read  the  vivid  description  of  his 
ardor. 

"A  celestial  heart 

Burnt  from  his  winged  heels  to  either  ear, 
That  from  a  whiteness,  as  a  lily  clear, 
Blushed  into  roses  'mid  his  golden  hair." 

Then  the  appearance  of  the  snake,  with  the  power 
of  speech,  her  sudden  change  into  "a  full-born 


Cfte  Cleaning  ITS 


beauty  new  and  exquisite,"  so  absorbed  me  that  1 
did  not  hear  a  step  on  the  rug  beside  me. 

"You  have  come,"  said  a  voice,  and  I  looked  up 
startled  to  find  my  father  before  me. 

"Did  you  doubt  me?"  I  answered. 

"I  feared  you  might  forget,"  he  responded,  as 
he  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down.  We  talked  of 
many  things,  the  snake-woman  of  the  poem  that  lay 
open  on  my  lap.  We  compared  portrait  painting" 
with  the  outlining  of  nature,  and  the  voice  with  the 
power  of  the  pen. 

A  shaft  of  light  through  the  dim  fabric  that 
shaded  the  windows  to  my  left,  fell  over  his  face. 
His  forehead  was  high  and  splendid  with  the  fingers 
of  heaven  upon  it.  His  eyes  were  fathomless,  clear 
pools  whose  depths  I  hungered  to  penetrate. 
Through  his  hair  a  few  stray  silvered  locks  lay  be- 
side their  fellows,  but  they  only  intensified  their  jet 
blackness.  The  hair  was  thin  at  the  temples,  the 
nose  sharp  and  the  mouth  firm  and  close  set. 

I  loved  his  countenance,  and  my  eyes  softened  as 
I  faced  him. 

"I'll  leave  you  a  minute,  Miss  Grier,  I  want  to 
insure  against  interruption,"  he  said.  When  he  re- 
turned a  faint  flush  tinged  each  cheek,  lifting  the 
general  pallor.  His  eyes  shone  bright,  I  had  never 
seen  so  enlarged  a  pupil.  It  was  rimmed  in  the 
divine. 

He  approached  the  brown  denim  that  curtained 
the  wall  opposite  me.  He  pulled  one  corner  from 
its  firm  fastening.  Gradually  the  bottom  was  re- 
leased and  then  the  sides  hung  loose  and  limp.  He 
motioned  me  to  the  couch  that  stood  beneath  the 


174 Lotte  3n 

curtain.  I  came  at  his  bidding,  my  face  expectant, 
was  lifted  to  his.  I  was  caught  in  the  radiance  that 
enveloped  him.  I  waited,  my  hands,  palm  to  palm, 
my  eyes  vainly  trying  to  penetrate  the  denim. 

For  one  moment  he  faced  me,  his  back  to  the 
wall,  the  silence  between  us. 

"I  haven't  looked  at  this  picture  for  twenty  years, 
Miss  Grier.  Old  memories  are  surging  in.  They 
stir  through  my  breast.  There  is  almost  a  faint- 
ness  creeping  over  me." 

He  turned  quickly  as  the  last  word  fell  from  his 
lips.  His  right  hand  gave  a  sudden  jerk,  and  the 
painting  was  once  more  exposed  to  the  light  of  day. 
The  action  dazed  me  at  first.  In  the  quick  falling 
of  the  curtain,  his  tall  form  shadowed  the  wall,  and 
gave  me  but  a  glimpse.  I  saw  only  indistinctly,  but 
as  my  eyes  became  used  to  the  scene  an  awe  settled 
over  me.  My  lids  opened  wide,  my  whole  coun- 
tenance was  alert,  and  I  stared  intently.  Slowly  my 
eyes  sought  his,  the  whole  truth  of  the  tie  that 
bound  us,  father  and  child,  was  in  their  depths.  But 
his  face  was  turned  to  the  wall.  He  was  lost  in 
the  picture.  Once  more  I  faced  the  canvas  and  a 
quiver  of  delight  ran  through  me.  It  was  my 
mother's  face  I  looked  upon. 


C&e  (Kleatotnjj  175 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"You  like  the  picture?"  he  said,  turning  to  me 
abruptly,  his  voice  having1  in  it  a  wail,  a  bitter,  bitter 
loneliness.  "You  like  it?"  he  repeated  the  words 
absently,  and  their  sound  sent  a  quiver  upon  the  air, 
the  heartache,  that  had  been  endured  so  many  years. 
"I  have  named  it — Motherhood, — for  all  of  life  is 
upon  that  square  of  canvas." 

"How  beautiful!"  I  cried,  giving  vent  to  an  in- 
ward impulse  that  roused  me  to  speech.  "You  are 
a  portrait  painter.  There  is  the  real  tint  of  the  soft 
flesh  in  her  arm,  and  the  flush  overspreading  her 
face  is  wonderful." 

I  flashed  from  my  eyes  hints  of  many  words  that 
lay  upon  my  heart  to  be  spoken,  but  he  was  far 
away  in  thought,  yet  I  knew  he  heard  what  I  had 
said,  because  his  lips  murmured : 

"I  never  paint  portraits  now,  and  never  shall  let 
my  brush  follow  the  outline  of  the  human  form 
again." 

There  was  a  heaviness  of  death  in  his  words. 
They  fell  on  the  air  like  corpses  and  there  was  a 
hopeless  quivering  in  his  voice  that  sent  a  chill 
through  him.  He  still  loved  my  mother,  though 
he  could  see  no  turning  of  the  road  that  might  lead 
to  her.  I  did  a  desperate  thing,  for  I  was  ever 
impulsive.  I  took  a  step  nearer  to  him,  he  was 


176 Hotte  3n 

gazing  abstractedly  into  the  picture,  and  I  took  his 
hand  and  held  it  lovingly  between  my  palms. 

"Tell  me  about  the  portrait,  will  you?"  I  asked 
as  I  gently  led  him  toward  the  sofa.  He  yielded, 
not  realizing  that  I  was  guiding  him  there  at  my 
will. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  he  said  dully.  "I  put 
my  life,  my  heart  in  that  picture,  and  as  one  dead  I 
walk  through  the  world  of  the  living." 

He  grasped  my  hand,  his  eyes  were  downcast 
and  his  fingers  pressed  firmly  around  mine.  I  let  it 
remain  in  his  clasp.  It  was  a  fluttering  bird,  safely 
housed.  The  world  seemed  far  away  as  we  sat 
there,  and  at  last  yielding  to  a  force  within  that  I 
could  not  disobey,  I  drew  away  my  hand,  went 
across  the  room,  and  took  from  the  wall  a  small 
mirror  that  hung  near  the  door. 

He  noticed  my  action,  but  did  not  question  me. 
I  sat  down  beside  him  again  and  held  the  mirror 
in  front  of  us. 

"Look!"  I  cried.  He  sent  one  quick  glance  into 
the  glass  and  then  turned  toward  me,  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?     I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 

"The  faces !"  I  urged.  "They  are  alike.  Do  you 
not  see  the  resemblance  ?"  He  turned  his  gaze  once 
more  into  the  mirror. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  "the  same  dark  eyes,  the 
cast  of  countenance  not  unlike.  What  are  you  tell- 
ing me  in  the  glass,  child?  What  is  it?" 

A  terrible  anxiety  shook  his  frame.  "Did  you 
ever  have  a  child  ?"  I  asked,  as  I  let  the  mirror  drop 


Cfre  fflleatrin IT? 

upon  my  lap.  His  face  grew  livid,  his  lips  were 
white,  and  his  speech  thick  as  he  answered : 

"A  child  ?  No,  never !"  It  was  my  turn  to  grow 
troubled.  There  was  an  appeal  in  my  voice  as  I  re- 
peated my  question. 

"You  never  had  a  child?     Never?" 

A  wistful  eagerness  quivered  in  my  tone.  I  was 
puzzled.  Why  did  he  not  know  his  own?  I  was 
wounded,  and  a  terrible  fear  clutched  me.  I  tried 
to  lift  the  cloud  that  was  settling  upon  me — I  must 
penetrate  it,  find  the  light. 

I  arose  and  approached  the  canvas  upon  the  wall. 
My  fingers  sought  contact  with  the  woman's  face, 
as  she  reclined  upon  the  low  couch.  I  let  them 
stroke  the  golden  hair  that  fell  about  her,  a  veil  of 
glory. 

I  drew  closer,  yet  closer  to  the  portrait.  When 
my  face  was  on  a  level  with  hers  of  the  picture  I 
pressed  my  cheek  where  my  fingers  had  strayed 
and  my  lips  whispered  softly,  "My  mother." 

The  words  were  as  magic  to  the  man  sitting  near 
me.  He  was  at  my  side  in  an  instant. 

"Your  mother!"  he  cried.  "How  dare  you  sully 
the  woman  I  love?  How  dare  you?" 

His  lips  threw  the  words  at  me  harshly.  It  was 
the  freeing  of  a  nature,  that  for  one  moment  shook 
off  the  bonds  that  held  it  under  control.  He  grasped 
me  roughly  by  the  shoulders.  The  cold  sweat  stood 
upon  his  forehead. 

"Your  mother!"  he  repeated.  "My  God!  what 
do  you  mean  ?  Are  you  mad,  child  ?"  and  he  forced 
me  upon  the  sofa,  impelling  my  eyes  to  rest  upon 
the  fire  of  his. 


178 Hob*  3n 

"Yes,  that  is  my  mother's  picture,"  and  great 
sobs  shook  my  voice.  I  was  afraid.  I  had  felt  so 
sure  of  what  I  said,  but  his  actions  made  me  doubt. 
Once  more  I  sent  my  voice  fearlessly  forth  into 
the  room. 

"Yes,  my  dear  mother  looks  at  me  from  your 
painting.  My  mother,  who  is  now  sitting  at  home 
in  our  cottage  pressing  her  fingers  where  the  labor 
of  her  hands  has  supported  me  all  my  life — fitting 
me  to  enter  your  world !" 

I  hurled  the  words  at  him  defiantly.  He  should 
know  how  she  struggled  shut  away  alone.  He 
reached  for  my  hand,  and  his  tall  form  shook  as 
with  ague. 

"Your  father,  child!  Who  was  he?"  he  whis- 
pered the  words,  his  breath  was  labored  like  that 
of  a  dying  man,  it  touched  my  cheek  hot  and  fe- 
verish as  he  bent  near  me. 

"Your  father!"  he  repeatd.     "Who  was  he?" 

I  turned  and  lifted  the  mirror  from  the  sofa 
once  again  and  held  it  before  his  face.  The  silence 
that  enveloped  us  at  that  moment  was  full  of  solem- 
nity. A  solemnity  that  reaches  one  only  at  the  en- 
trance of  an  old  cathedral,  which  for  centuries  has 
gathered  the  sorrows  of  a  nation  within  its  vaulted 
ceiling,  where  faces  have  been  lifted  in  prayer,  and 
hearts  have  burned  with  agony,  as  forms  bent  low 
in  supplication. 

It  was  the  stillness  within  the  arches  of  an  old 
cathedral  that  was  about  us  as  I  lifted  the  mirror 
and  held  it  before  him.  One  moment  his  eyes  found 
the  image  reflected  there,  but  it  seemed  that  he  could 
not  understand.  I  leaned  nearer  to  his  side,  until 


Cfre  (KHeatimg  179 


my  eyes  looked  into  his  in  the  glass,  and  I  whis- 
pered softly: 

"The  face  reflected  there  is  my  father's." 

"Impossible!"  he  cried.  "And  yet,  dear  God,  is 
it  true?" 

I  had  never  seen  any  one  so  utterly  overcome.  I 
laid  the  mirror  on  a  chair  and  put  my  arms  around 
his  neck  unbidden.  The  clasp  of  my  embrace  soothed 
him,  for  the  trembling  ceased. 

"Is  it  true,  child  ?"  he  questioned  helplessly.  "Are 
you  my  daughter?"  His  voice  was  old  and  tired. 

"Tell  me  of  your  mother.  Tell  me  of  her!"  he 
begged. 

I  drew  a  stool  to  his  feet  and  did  his  bidding.  I 
pictured  the  village  where  we  had  lived  ever  since 
I  could  remember.  I  told  him  of  my  earliest  child- 
hood, of  the  garden  where  the  roses  and  heliotrope 
ran  wild  everywhere.  I  described  each  room  of  the 
tiny  home,  the  stars  in  the  painted  sky,  of  my  little 
bedchamber.  Then  I  told  him  of  the  dear  Pro- 
fessor and  the  gladness  in  my  mother's  heart  that 
I  was  to  sing.  I  dwelt  lovingly  upon  the  close  com- 
radeship that  existed  between  us.  He  interrupted 
me  to  say  : 

"Yes,  she  was  ever  that.  She  was  my  pal,  too, 
in  the  old  days."  I  then  described  minutely  the 
sweet  curves  of  her  face  with  the  real  light  of 
motherhood  upon  it.  He  listened  as  one  dazed  and 
bowed  his  head  as  if  in  deep  thought.  Suddenly 
he  looked  up  and  again  his  eyes  searched  the  pic- 
ture before  him. 

"All  my  theories  of  life  are  slipping  away,  child 
—  slipping  away,"  he  cried. 


180 ILotte  3n 

Then  he  looked  at  me  critically.  He  examined 
my  hands  and  face  carefully  as  if  he  thought  to 
find  something  wrong  about  me.  My  flesh  must  be 
different,  something  must  be  imperfect  in  it,  but  he 
could  find  no  flaw. 

"It  is  fair,  even  as  hers,"  he  murmured. 

"Why  should  anything  be  wrong  with  me?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  Elsa,  child,  I  don't  know!"  he  answered, 
in  a  bewildered  way.  "I  don't  know  where  my 
thoughts  are  taking  me.  I  have  always  held  such 
stern  rules  of  duty  before  me.  Duty,  the  formal 
submission  to  duty,  that's  it.  I  have  held  to  the 
letter  of  duty,  and  now  to  face  you,  the  child  of 
my  love,  bewilders  me.  It  almost  seems  as  if  some- 
thing must  be  wrong  with  you,  though  God  knows 
our  love  was  pure,  my  darling's  and  mine.  One 
hour  I  forgot  duty  and  took  love  to  my  bosom  and 
it  brought  you.  It  bewilders  me. 

"The  letter  of  the  law,  Elsa,  that  is  what  I  have 
always  lived  by — the  letter  of  the  law.  I  held  to 
it  that  God  and  the  world  demanded  the  sacrifice  of 
my  heart.  Are  you  happy,  child?  Has  your  life 
been  a  beautiful  one?" 

"Oh,  so  beautiful!"  I  cried  eagerly.  "All  hap- 
piness, no  cloud,  dear  father,  to  mar  it,  until  the 
night  of  your  musical,  when  I  first  saw  your  face. 
But  that  cloud  is  disappearing,  now  that  I  can 
claim  you  mine,"  and  I  looked  up  at  him  fear- 
lessly. 

"God  is  love,  father,"  I  whispered,  and  he  looked 
at  me  intently  as  I  spoke,  as  if  the  light  were  flood- 
ing his  soul. 


C&e  MJeatiing  181 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Gradually  the  deep  lines  left  his  forehead,  and 
calmness  settled  over  his  countenance.  It  grew  upon 
him  as  we  talked,  as  if  peace  had  entered  his  soul. 

"You  are  like  the  picture  in  her  desk  now,"  I  said, 
looking  up  at  him. 

"And  you  knew  me  because  of  that?"  he  ques- 
tioned, and  then  his  voice  took  on  a  far-away, 
dreamy  accent  as  he  went  on,  "I  remember  the  pic- 
ture. I  painted  it  for  her  one  day  as  we  sat  in 
the  studio,  a  rainy  afternoon.  She  wore  a  blue 
dress,  that  I  loved;  it  was  the  color  of  her  eyes. 
Ah,  I  remember  her,  that  gloomy  day.  She  was 
beautiful.  The  whole  world  was  in  the  depths  of 
her  dear  eyes  for  me.  It  was  late  when  she  left 
me,  my  beloved,"  he  murmured  as  he  rambled  on, 
giving  me  glimpses  of  the  sweet  moments  that 
united  them. 

"And  you  knew  me  at  the  musical?"  he  repeated, 
going  back  in  his  thought. 

"At  once,"  I  answered. 

"Poor  child,"  he  said,  and  patted  my  hand  lov- 
ingly. I  had  banished  the  horror  of  his  thought, 
and  he  was  beginning  to  piece  the  broken  bits  of 
his  life  together. 

"We  loved — your  mother  and  I.  Our  love  was 
pure  and  sweet.  Then  I  painted  the  picture,  there 


182 £otie  3n 

upon  the  wall.  It  took  a  hold  upon  her  that  made 
me  wonder.  She  lingered  hungrily  before  it  for 
hours.  I  remember  so  well  the  day  it  was  finished. 
I  left  the  room  for  a  moment,  and  when  I  returned 
it  had  my  darling  completely  under  its  spell.  She 
clung  to  me  piteously,  whispered  words  of  love  into 
my  ears.  Her  voice  was  mesmeric,  her  whole  soul 
was  in  it.  It  flooded  my  senses  and  I  drank  in  the 
sweetness  of  love  from  her  lips  eagerly,  as  one  faint 
and  thirsty  upon  a  desert 

"A  madness  was  upon  me  as  I  listened  to  the  low 
murmur  of  her  voice.  'Let  us  go  away/  she  begged, 
'just  for  a  day,  a  week.  Take  me  on  the  water  far 
from  the  noisy  pavements.  Let  us  seek  the  island 
of  love  and  moor  our  boat  to  its  shore.'  I  could  not 
resist  her  pleading,"  he  went  on,  a  look  of  raptur- 
ous memory  creeping  into  his  eyes  as  he  revealed 
the  secrets  of  his  heart  to  me.  "I  had  just  fin- 
ished painting  my  greatest  picture,  the  full  glamour 
of  success  was  upon  me,  and  I  loved  her,  Elsa,  I 
loved  her,  even  as  she  loved  me. 

"We  slipped  away  and  were  lost  from  the  world. 
I  had  a  sailboat,  I  stocked  her  with  food,  and 
made  ready  to  receive  my  darling.  She  came  to 
me  at  evening,  the  sunset  in  her  hair,  her  eyes 
radiant  with  happiness,  and  we  drifted  away  from 
the  haunts  of  men.  The  great  waves  rocked  us  into 
an  oblivion  of  such  perfect  joy,  that  I  have  never 
realized  its  like  again. 

"But  we  awoke,  and  looked  into  each  others' 
souls.  She  penetrated  the  secret  recesses  of  my 
thought,  and  one  morning  when  I  sought  her  after 
our  return  to  the  whirl  of  life  she  was  gone." 


Cfre  meaning  183 


He  ceased  speaking,  arose,  and  went  over  to  a 
desk  in  the  corner  of  the  room  unlocked  a  secret 
drawer  and  took  out  a  letter,  yellow  and  worn,  and 
gave  it  to  me.  It  was  my  mother's  handwriting, 
and  I  fingered  the  pages  tenderly,  and  my  voice  was 
low  and  indistinct  as  I  read  the  closely  written  sen- 
tences aloud  at  his  bidding. 

"My  heart  has  touched  yours,  and  I  was  awake 
to  its  quick  throbbings.  A  deep  subtle  understand- 
ing has  penetrated  my  being.  I  wear  no  cloak  of 
regret.  I  love  you,  and  loving  you,  I  go  away  that 
your  love  may  ever  remain  true." 

"She  was  gone,  Elsa,"  he  interrupted,  "gone,  and 
I  knew  not  where  to  seek  her.  There  was  nothing 
to  explain  her  flight  but  that  little  note."  I  had 
glanced  up  at  his  words,  and  now  returned  my  eyes 
to  the  yellowing  sheet  of  paper  in  my  fingers  and 
continued  to  read  aloud: 

"I  have  known  the  sweetness  of  you,  and  I  am 
content.  I  cannot  remain,  now  that  we  have  un- 
veiled our  love,"  and  that  was  all,  only  her  name 
"Alta"  at  its  close. 

"I  sought  for  her  everywhere,  child,"  he  said, 
taking  up  the  thread  of  our  conversation.  "My 
heart  died  in  my  breast,  and  I  veiled  the  picture.  I 
believe  in  God  and  the  Bible,  and  a  child  thus  be- 
gotten horrifies  me.  She  had  a  deeper  vision,  Elsa, 
I  feel  that,  as  I  sit  here.  How  strange  and  fearful 
it  all  is.  You,  my  little  one,  hurled  into  the  world 
under  such  circumstances  ;  I  cannot  bear  it  ! 

"The  same  problem  is  before  me  now  that  I  faced 
twenty  years  ago.  I  cannot  solve  it,  my  brain 
whirls."  I  pushed  him  gently  back  upon  the  couch. 


19* T Hone  3tn 

He  did  not  resist  me.  He  was  tired  with  trying  to 
solve  the  mystery  of  life.  I  knelt  by  his  side  and 
laid  my  head  on  his  breast. 

"There  is  but  one  thing  that  troubles  me,  father," 
I  said,  as  my  fingers  stroked  his  forehead. 

"And  that,  Elsa?"  he  asked  tenderly. 

"Is  Charles  Grey,"  I  answered.  "What  will  he 
say  to  all  this  ?" 

"Must  he  know,  dear?"  he  asked,  startled  that  I 
would  expose  our  secret. 

"Oh,  yes!"  I  cried;  "he  is  all  the  world  to  me. 
He  is  my  world,  and  if  he  loves  me  in  spite  of  my 
birth  there  is  no  other  world  to  fret  .me.  I  have 
been  reared  to  look  into  the  problems  that*beset  us." 
As  I  spoke,  confidence  grew  upon  me.  I  had  the 
courage  of  my  mother,  as  I  said  bravely:  "There 
is  no  blackness  of  despair  that  the  light  of  love  can- 
not penetrate.  There  is  no  God  that  will  hurl  you, 
or  my  mother,  or  me,  into  a  bottomless  pit.  Love 
is  for  the  glad  daylight  of  the  flowers  and  green 
life — 'love  is  the  glad  world  of  expression,  father, 
dear."  He  looked  at  me  amazed  as  I  continued : 
"The  blackness  that  chokes  out  lives  is  repression. 
Nature  gives  her  love  full  and  free,  and  are  we  not 
greater  than  nature?" 

I  was  taking  him  into  realms  of  thought,  his  stern 
law-loving  nature  had  never  penetrated  before.  I 
would  wipe  away  regret,  and  I  continued  as  one 
inspired,  while  he  listened  with  ever-increasing  emo- 
tion. 

"If  I  but  knew !"  he  cried.  "If  I  could  push  the 
curtain  of  life  aside  and  see  the  pattern  of  it  all." 

He  arose  to  a  sitting  posture.     The  lines  about 


Cfre  OHeartng 185 

his  eyes  were  deep.  He  was  suffering  in  spite  of 
my  effort.  His  fingers  nervously  rumpled  his  dark 
hair,  and  every  few  minutes  his  eyes  would  close, 
as  if  to  catch  some  fleeting  vision,  or  to  still  the  wild 
surging  of  emotion  within  his  heart.  It  was  grow- 
ing late.  Already  the  shadows  were  creeping  over 
the  window  ledge.  I  gently  drew  his  figure  down 
upon  the  couch.  Once  again  my  hand  lay  upon  his 
brow. 

"Sleep,  father,  dear,  I  must  go,  or  be  late  for  the 
opening.  Sleep — and  in  your  dreaming  the  vision 
will  speak.  You  can  follow  the  pattern  more  closely 
in  the  silence."  I  kissed  him  upon  his  lips,  so  long 
lonely  for  her  kiss — my  mother's. 

"Our  dear  lady  back  in  the  little  cottage,  busy 
with  her  work,  gives  you  that  kiss,"  I  whispered. 
He  pressed  me  close  to  him,  then  his  arms  fell  away 
and  he  yielded  to  my  pleading  like  a  tired  child.  I 
stole  quietly  to  the  door.  Would  the  light  come 
and  lead  him  out  of  the  darkness  and  cold,  into  the 
peace  of  understanding?  I  drew  the  door  gently 
shut. 

My  whole  being  was  hushed  into  a  wonderful 
calm  as  I  turned  my  face  toward  the  hotel.  Upon 
every  side  the  hurrying  throng  jostled  by;  a  mass 
of  people,  groping  and  struggling  even  as  he,  lying 
still  and  quiet  in  the  shadow-filled  studio. 


186 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Thirty  minutes  had  hardly  elapsed  when  I  was  in 
my  own  little  room  at  the  hotel,  holding  in  my  hand 
a  small  package.  Darkness  almost  veiled  the  place 
and  I  quickly  turned  the  light  on,  that  I  might  sat- 
isfy my  curiosity,  concerning  the  square  bundle  in 
my  hand.  I  cut  the  strings  and  tore  the  wrappings 
away.  The  handwriting  was  unknown.  There  is  a 
joy  attending  the  satisfaction  of  one's  curiosity. 
Life  had  seemed  wrong  of  late,  and  there  was  diver- 
sion in  this  tiny  bundle.  I  drew  away  the  last  layer 
of  paper  and  disclosed  a  likeness  of  my  mother. 

"She  has  remembered,"  I  said  aloud.  I  had  never 
possessed  a  photograph  of  her,  and  it  pleased  me 
that  she  had  gratified  my  wish.  I  did  not  need  a 
likeness  to  bring  her  face  before  me.  I  had  but  to 
close  my  eyes,  thus  shutting  out  intervening  ob- 
jects, then  draw  a  veil  between  the  outside  world 
and  my  inner  vision,  and  her  face  was  before  me. 

But  this  was  a  treasure,  this  delicate  outlining 
that  gave  her  countenance  to  me.  I  could  look  deep 
into  her  eyes  and  a  smile  rose  out  of  the  cardboard 
that  cleared  away  the  perplexity  which  had  preyed 
upon  my  heart. 

"She  is  even  nearer  than  when  in  my  thought," 
I  murmured. 

There  was  a  different  look,   some  way,   in  the 


Cl)e  meaning  is? 


face  now,  since  the  veil  of  her  life  had  been  torn 
away,  and  I,  her  child,  knew  all.  I  had  almost  been 
forced  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  my  dear  one,  and 
I  trembled  since  1  had  really  entered  the  holy  place 
of  her  love.  How  high  the  forehead,  and  the  lips 
were  warm  and  red. 

"Dear  mother,  you  are  beautiful  to  me,"  I  whis- 
pered as  I  gazed  at  my  treasure. 

Suddenly  his  face  rose  before  me.  In  my  reverie 
I  saw  my  father  lying  alone  in  the  studio.  He  was 
groping  for  the  way  in  the  silence  of  sleep.  His 
fingers  were  reaching  to  outline  the  pattern  of  his 
life.  Would  the  spirit  fingers  guide  him  and  hold 
the  scheme  of  life  before  him  ;  trace  for  his  bewil- 
dered brain  the  pattern  of  it  all  ? 

A  great  love  for  my  mother  came  welling  into 
my  heart  as  I  stood  gazing  at  her  face.  I  would 
have  her  happy,  and  yet  sorrow  had  transformed 
her  into  such  sweet  womanhood.  Sorrow  had  dwelt 
ever  in  her  life,  but  she  had  never  grown  bitter  in 
its  pain.  There  is  a  note  of  melody  to  be  heard, 
if  we  but  listen,  when  crushed  and  helpless  we  turn 
to  the  Infinite  Une  —  a  note  of  such  sweet  cadence 
that  when  we  hear  it,  though  all  the  path  seem 
lonely  ahead,  we  are  glad  even  in  our  grief. 

I  sighed  as  I  put  the  picture  upon  the  table,  and 
then  a  wonderful  resolve  came  to  me,  an  inspira- 
tion that  prompted  me  to  eager  action.  I  gathered 
together  the  few  things  I  needed,  took  a  quick 
glance  at  the  clock,  and,  putting  the  photograph 
into  my  handbag,  hurried  out  of  the  door  to  the 
elevator  and  into  the  street. 

I  hailed  a  passing  cab  and  was  driven  back  to 


188 Lope  3ln 

the  studio  of  George  Carton.  It  was  only  a  short 
distance,  but  I  had  no  time  to  lose.  I  bade  the 
cabby  wait  while  I  ascended  to  the  top  story  and 
silently  made  my  way  to  the  painter's  rooms. 

At  last  I  reached  the  door ;  it  alone  stood  between 
us,  and  a  terror  seized  me.  Our  relationship  was 
so  newly  established,  could  I  be  so  bold  as  to  open 
the  door  without  knocking?  "Yes,  I  must,"  I  cried. 
If  he  still  slept  it  would  be  all  right,  and  if  awake 
I  could  explain.  Something  told  me  that  he  slept, 
and  I  held  my  breath  as  I  slowly  and  carefully; 
turned  the  knob. 

Gradually  I  let  the  knob  slip  back  in  my  hand, 
and  then  quietly,  breathlessly,  I  entered  the  room. 
The  place  was  enveloped  in  darkness,  yet  a  few  re- 
maining rays  of  twilight  lingered  over  the  window- 
sill — just  a  flickering  shaft  of  silver  to  soften  the 
hard  blackness  of  night. 

I  stole  over  the  thick  rugs,  my  feet  making  no 
sound,  and  reached  the  couch  where  he  lay,  without 
disturbing  him.  For  one  moment  I  stood  silent 
there,  marveling  at  the  nobility  of  the  face  beneath 
my  eyes.  The  lines  of  care  were  gone,  erased  by 
invisible  fingers.  The  mouth  was  curved  into  a 
smile.  One  hand  lay  on  his  breast,  and  near  it 
I  placed  the  small  photograph  of  my  mother. 

No  subtle  desire  prompted  the  bringing  of  her 
picture,  yet  I  had  unconsciously  penetrated  the  heart 
of  his  dreams.  Did  I  plan  to  incline  his  thought 
toward  her  ?  I  hardly  knew.  I  had  but  obeyed  an 
impulse  born  of  my  love  for  her,  and  from  the  circle 
of  her  love  I  had  naturally  reached  out  to  him — the 


Cfre  EOeatring 189 

man  who   for  so  many  years  had  influenced   her 
thought  and  mine. 

I  bent  over  and  kissed  the  dark  hair  lying  in  dis- 
order upon  his  brow,  then  retraced  my  steps  to  the 
door.  I  trembled  lest  I  should  make  a  false  move 
and  awaken  him.  When  the  door  was  again  closed 
between  us  I  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

The  thought  of  eating  in  a  public  cafe  grew  re- 
pugnant to  me  as  I  stood  outside  in  the  chill  night 
air.  I  would  go  direct  to  the  theatre  and  make 
some  tea  there  on  an  alcohol  stove  I  had  in  my  dress- 
ing room.  I  was  not  hungry,  anyway.  It  was  only 
to  keep  the  faintness  under  subjection  that  I  en- 
dured even  the  thought  of  tea. 

I  sprang  into  the  cab  and  was  hurried  along 
through  the  streets,  the  cabby  urging  his  half- 
starved  animal  to  extra  speed  in  the  hope  of  another 
dollar  with  a  return  passenger.  We  reached  the 
theatre.  I  paid  him,  and  he  was  off,(t:he  thud  of 
iron-rimmed  hoofs  sending  back  an  echo  that  had 
only  the  note  of  pain  in  it.  J  , 

Poor  creatures,   my  heart  bled   for  the  horses,) 
weighed  down  with  the  responsibility  of  a  heavy( 
vehicle   on   their  shoulders.     Poor,    faithful,    plod-  / 
ding  beasts !     I  picked  my  way  to  the  dimly  lighted 
entrance ;  it  was  still  early,  and  the  bustle  about  the 
box  office  had  not  commenced.     I  stepped  into  the 
half-darkened  corridor. 

I  knew  the  way,  and  so  had  no  difficulty  in  finding 
the  door  of  my  dressing  room.  Liza  had  been  ill, 
and  I  had  told  her  to  remain  at  home  to-night,  but 
the  place  setmed  lonesome  without  her. 

I  turned  on  the  light  and  laid  aside  my  hat  and 


190 Lotie  Sn 

coat.  There  were  some  crackers  in  a  bag  on  the 
shelf.  I  took  them  down,  then  drew  some  water. 
It  was  soon  boiling,  and  I  had  the  tea  made  and  a 
cup  filled,  fragrant  and  hot,  in  my  hand. 

As  I  sat  sipping  it  I  heard  a  noise  outside  my 
door.  It  startled  me  at  first.  It  was  rather  an 
awful  thought,  the  great  empty  building  beyond  my 
vision.  I  listened  intently,  placing  the  cup  on  a 
small  table.  It  was  a  step,  and  I  opened  the  door 
recklessly  that  I  might  still  the  beating  of  my  heart 
and  know  quickly  the  shape  of  the  fear  that  rose 
before  me  from  the  outside. 

As  I  threw  wide  the  door  I  almost  fell  into  the 
arms  of  Charles  Grey. 

"I  had  to  come,  Elsa/'  he  said,  taking  both  my 
hands  impulsively. 

The  expression  on  his  face  was  sad,  and  the  lids 
drooped  far  over  his  eyes.  My  dear  boy  had  suf- 
fered. He  held  my  hands,  and  I  let  them  remain 
passive  in  his  grasp.  I  was  tired  of  struggling. 
He  drew  me  into  his  arms,  and  I  let  him.  I  was 
worn  out,  and  new  courage  entered  my  being,  my 
heart  next  to  his. 

Closer,  still  closer  he  drew  me,  and  I  made  no 
effort  to  free  myself.  My  head  lay  on  his  breast, 
he  bent  his  face  to  mine.  It  was  heaven  to  rest 
in  his  arms,  to  look  out  upon  life  from  the  shelter 
of  his  breast  and  feel  no  fear.  I  was  young,  and 
the  blood  coursed  through  my  veins  like  mad.  Life, 
life,  was  upon  every  side  of  us.  All  her  treasures 
were  about  us,  we  had  but  to  stretch  our  hands  for 
them.  Can  one  describe  the  happiness  when  the  es- 
sence of  joy,  the  joy  of  being,  is  first  set  free  within 


Cf)e  tOeatting  191 


us?  When  life  becomes  so  sweet  that  it  possesses 
us  with  its  wonder  and  we  forget  all  else  ;  the 
blood  tingles,  pulses  thrill,  lips  quiver,  and  we  would 
express  the  mystery  within.  Love  freed  becomes 
a  flame,  burns  to  a  white  heat,  that  does  not  con- 
sume. 

All  this  went  surging  through  my  being  as  I 
felt  his  breath  near  mine.  Then  his  voice  broke  the 
spell  as  he  whispered  : 

"My  precious  one,  how  she  has  suffered,  and  I 
never  knew  until  last  night.  Will  you  forgive  me, 
dearest?"  and  he  held  me  closer  still. 

I  could  not  speak,  I  could  only  feel,  yet  I  raised 
my  eyes  to  his,  and  then  his  lips  were  upon  my 
lips,  the  world  was  forgotten,  the  magic  of  love 
was  over,  and  under,  and  about  me.  Then  I  drew 
away  from  his  embrace  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 
He  met  my  gaze  frankly. 

"You  know  of  my  birth?"  I  cried. 

"I  know,  Elsa,"  he  answertd,  putting  his  arms 
about  me  and  drawing  me  to  a  small  sofa  in  the 
room. 

"How  could  you  fear  my  knowing,  my  darling? 
I  love  you,  love  you.  Nothing  could  separate  us 
or  change  that  love.  If  you  but  love  me  there  is 
nothing  else  can  matter." 

He  whispered  the  words  close  to  my  ear,   and 
his  face  was  aglow  with  tenderness.     I  let  his  arms  ^ 
close  round  me,  a  barrier  that  shut  out  the  world^ 

"Do  you  love  me?"    he    whispered.     "Say    the 
words,  Elsa." 
,  "I  do  love  youjf 


193 Lotie  3n 

"Thank  God  for  that,"  he  murmured,  as  his  dear 
hand  lay  on  my  hair. 

"And  my  father,"  I  whispered,  "is  George  Car- 
ton, the  painter." 

I  wanted  him  to  know.  I  wanted  both  my  dear 
ones  to  enter  into  my  haJSpy  hour  and  the  naming 
of  them  seemed  to  bring  them  there. 

He  kissed  my  lips,  and  fear  went  out  of  my  life 
in  that  moment  forever.  The  universe  beyond  my 
dressing  room  faded  away.  Only  as  shadows  the 
myriad  of  human  beings  moved  about  me.  The 
real  world  was  here,  and  I  lay  in  its  arms.  The  real 
throbbing  heart  of  life  for  me  was  here,  and  I  felt 
its  quick  beat  against  my  breast. 

"Say  it  again,  dearest,"  whispered  a  voice.  'Twas 
the  voice  of  my  dreams.  It  came  to  me  as  from  a 
great  distance,  as  a  note  of  music  that  I  longed  to 
hear.  I  only  looked  my  answer;  he  caught  me  to 
his  breast  and  kissed  me. 

"I  have  dreamed  what  it  could  mean  to  be  loved 
by  you,"  he  said,  "to  have  your  eyes  speak  the  words 

that  have  haunted  me,  to  have But  say  the 

words,  Elsa,  whisper  them,  your  lips  to  mine,"  and 
my  heart  answered  to  the  quick  throbbing  of  his  as 
I  murmured  "I  love  you." 


Cfte  SOeatoing  193 


THE  VISION. 

The  last  flickering  rays  of  twilight  touched  the 
outer  edge  of  the  window  frame  that  opened  into 
the  studio.  The  room  was  enveloped  in  darkness, 
only  the  quivering  fingers  of  the  sun  reached 
through  the  casement  at  intervals,  to  caress  lov- 
ingly the  sleeping  form  of  a  man  upon  a  fur-cov- 
ered couch.  The  yellow  light,  now  growing  faint 
and  pale,  lay  over  the  silent  figure  mingling  with  the 
hair  that  fell  in  loose  disorder  about  the  white  brow. 
Then  slowly,  reluctantly  the  glory  of  the  glad  world 
crept  away,  leaving  the  place  in  darkness. 

Gradually  a  deep,  deep  blackness  enveloped  the 
room,  unbroken  by  any  murmur  of  outward  voices. 
The  troubled  sleeper  lay  still  and  quiet,  glad  of 
oblivion.  Suddenly  an  apparition,  born  of  his 
dreaming,  appeared  before  him.  The  figure  was  as 
a  soft  radiance  that  blended  with  the  darkness,  was 
a  part  of  it. 

Hush!  Above  the  sleeping  man  it  bent,  lower 
and  lower,  until  the  intensity  of  its  gaze  reached  the 
consciousness  of  the  individual  prone  upon  the 
couch. 

"Arise,"  said  the  spirit,  "the  God  of  Love  and 
Life  calleth  for  thy  presence,  and  the  woman  whom 
thou  tookest  to  wife." 

Slowly  consciousness  returned — the  man  remem- 


194 Lotie  3tn 

bered,  A  deep  peace  fell  upon  him,  and  he  arose  to 
obey  the  voice  that  echoed  through  the  silence.  He 
sought  the  woman  he  called  wife,  and,  taking  her 
hand  in  his,  started  on  his  journey  to  the  realm  of 
the  Gods.  He  was  glad  he  had  been  summoned,, 
now  he  would  know  the  truth,  he  \vould  see  the  pat- 
tern of  his  life. 

Sorrow  fell  away  as  he  journeyed  on,  a  trium- 
phant glow  enlightened  his  countenance.  He  could 
hear  the  "Well  done."  The  experiences  through 
which  he  had  passed  in  his  sojourn  upon  the  earth 
rose  before  him.  He  viewed  them  calmly.  The 
morning  of  his  youth,  the  wonderful  expectancy  that 
had  filled  his  breast  as  a  boy,  the  bigger,  surer  vision 
that  had  appeared  in  his  larger  manhood,  and  now 
the  years  of  fulfillment. 

He  pondered  over  them  all  as  he  went  on,  the 
woman  by  his  side.  At  last  he  neared  the  presence 
of  the  God  of  Love  and  Life  who  had  summoned 
him.  Dimly  at  first  he  received  hints  of  the  beauty 
that  lay  in  the  path  before  him.  There  came  steal- 
ing nearer  fragmentary  glimpses  of  the  heights  to- 
ward which  his  eyes  had  been  lifted  since  his  youth. 
Slowly  it  dawned  upon  him,  like  the  unfolding  of 
a  beautiful  dream,  the  light  that  was  beyond  pene- 
trated his  soul.  In  the  distance  divinely  fair  he  be- 
held the  throne  where  sat  the  Wonderful  One. 

Gently  he  guided  the  steps  of  the  woman  that 
her  feet  might  press  only  into  pleasant  ways.  There 
were  deep  lines  in  his  face,  but  a  sweetness  lay  upon 
his  countenance,  like  a  halo.  The  woman  by  his 
side  was  marvelously  beautiful.  Through  the  tur- 
moil, the  fret  of  life,  he  had  guided  her,  ever  lead- 


Cfre  leaning  195 


ing  her  along  a  blossom-strewn  path,  thus  youth 
kept  her  step  buoyant,  her  form  radiant  and  beauti- 
ful beyond  expression. 

He  had  shielded  her  from  sorrow,  and  her  eyes 
were  as  clear  pools  reflecting  only  the  charm  of  this 
world.  Though  she  looked  out  upon  life  about 
her,  she  was  as  one  blind.  Beauty  was  reflected 
there,  yet  she  saw  not  the  glory  that  was  every- 
where. The  cries  of  the  creatures  that  trod  the  val- 
ley near  her  had  never  penetrated  her  being.  Agony 
of  soul  meant  nothing  to  her.  She  had  never  been 
awakened,  never  penetrated  the  veil  that  lay  over 
the  mystery  of  being.  .  It  had  never  been  drawn 
aside  that  she  might  carry  the  thrill  of  another  big- 
ger sphere  in  her  heart. 

Step  by  step  they  journeyed  on,  her  hand  in  the 
palm  of  his.  She  was  gowned  as  a  queen,  the  robe 
that  fell  about  her  with  rare  ingenious  skill  had 
been  fashioned  —  all  the  richness  of  the  world  was 
woven  into  its  texture.  She  was  arrayed  in  the 
glory  of  earth. 

"What  wouldst  thou  bring  into  my  presence?" 
said  the  God  of  Love  and  Life. 

"It  is  duty,"  answered  the  man.  "It  is  the  woman 
who  was  given  me  to  wife.  Behold,  I  have  brought 
her  into  thy  presence,  no  blemish  upon  her  brow. 
She  has  never  known  sorrow,"  and  the  man  drew 
himself  up  in  his  pride. 

"What  is  that  which  thou  carriest  in  thy  left 
hand  so  tightly?''  asked  the  Royal  One. 

"It  is  my  heart,"  answered  the  man. 

"But  why  so  small,"  questioned  the  God,  and  the 
traveler  replied  : 


196 Lone  Kn 

"I  have  held  it  close.  I  have  never  allowed  it 
to  breathe  or  expand.  Else  it  would  have  reached 
out  beyond  the  horizon  which  bound  it." 

A  compassionate  look  spread  over  the  countenance 
of  the  God. 

"I  have  ever  sacrificed  to  duty,"  went  on  the  man, 
"and  starved  my  heart  into  submission." 

When  the  pilgrim  ceased  speaking  a  sublime  si- 
lence enveloped  them.  Far  in  the  distance  stretched 
vistas  of  a  radiant  world  that  lay  beyond  the  throne, 
inaccessible  till  the  journey  was  at  an  end. 

"What  of  the  woman's  soul  ?"  demanded  a  voice 
calm  and  stern. 

The  man  trembled  and  was  afraid.  No  answer 
came  to  his  white  lips,  and  he  trembled  to  the  cen- 
tre of  his  being,  as  a  deeper  significance  of  his  jour- 
ney was  disclosed  to  his  heart. 

"Take  this  and  drink,"  said  the  Mighty  One, 
holding  out  a  cup  filled  to  the  brim  writh  red  wine. 
He  drank  eagerly  as  one  athirst.  Suddenly  his  eyes 
saw  into  the  hidden  places  of  earth.  He  traced  the 
pattern  of  his  life  and  knew  the  mistakes  of  his 
weaving. 

He  penetrated  the  worldly  garb  of  the  woman  by 
his  side.  He  saw  her  soul,  a  misshapen  mass,  a 
dim  shadow  but  faintly  outlined.  It  was  leaving 
her  body,  and  he  reached  out  eagerly  and  cried  aloud 
in  his  anguish. 

"Leave  the  woman  her  soul,  oh,  God  of  Love  and 
Life!"  and  then,  as  he  would  have  fainted  in  his 
distress,  an  angel  appeared  clothed  in  white,  a  thorn- 
branch  in  his  hand. 


Cfre  ffiQcatiing  197 


"Take  this,"  said  the  angel,  "and  pierce  the 
woman's  heart." 

The  pilgrim  shrank  into  himself,  closed  his  eyes, 
and  murmured  : 

"Her  heart?  I  cannot  make  her  suffer  by  any 
deed  of  mine." 

"Pierce  her  heart  with  the  thorn-branch,"  reit- 
erated the  angel.  The  pilgrim  opened  his  eyes,  and 
they  were  filled  with  tears,  a  terrible  agony  lay  in 
their  depths.  The  woman's  soul  was  floating  be- 
yond her.  Great  sobs  shook  the  man's  frame,  and 
he  cried  aloud  once  again  in  agony  : 

"I  cannot  wound  her.  I  must  do  my  duty.  I 
have  sworn  to  shelter  and  protect,  I  cannot  pierce 
her  heart!" 

The  angel  stood  before  him  silent  and  held  out 
the  thorn-branch.  The  woman's  soul  grew  fainter, 
fainter,  more  sickly,  a  pale,  dim  light. 

"Pierce  her  heart,"  said  the  angel,  and  the  man 
took  the  thorn-branch  as  one  in  a  trance,  and  obeyed. 

Suddenly  the  gown  of  her  worldly  perfection  fell 
away  from  her.  As  it  disappeared  she  turned  from 
the  man  by  her  side  and  into  her  face  crept  a  strange 
new  loveliness,  and  the  man  marveled  and  called 
aloud  to  her  : 

"Don't  you  know  me,  woman?" 

"Restrain  me  not,"  she  answered,  and  her  voice 
was  low  and  full  of  tenderness,  a  voice  he  had  never 
heard  before.  "I  must  away,  many  need  the  touch 
of  my  fingers,"  she  cried. 

"It  is  my  wife!"  cried  the  man  as  consciousness 
returned.  "I  have  wounded  her  beyond  recovery, 
she  does  not  know  me,"  he  added,  kneeling  humbly 


198  Lotie  in  tfte 


at  the  throne  of  the  God  of  Love  and  Life. 

"Thou  hast  given  back  her  soul,  and  behold  thy 
heart!  How  it  is  already  great." 

A  glorious  light  surrounded  the  traveler,  and  as 
the  God  spoke  his  form  grew  erect  and  strong. 

"Be  not  dismayed,  O  trembling  one!  Thy  heart 
would  lead  thee  into  the  path  of  love.  Follow  thy 
heart,  weary  pilgrim.  It  is  well,"  said  the  God 

Upon  the  face  of  the  sleeping  man  appeared  a 
slowly  dawning  consciousness.  He  rose  to  a  sitting 
posture.  A  great  peace  was  upon  him.  His  eyes 
held  in  their  gaze  a  deeper  vision  ;  the  radiant  love- 
liness of  another  world  was  in  their  dark  depths. 

Through  the  window  of  the  studio  shone  the 
moon,  a  sheen  of  glory  that  gave  new  beauty  to 
everything.  The  place  was  transformed,  and  a 
great  craving  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the  dreaming 
one.  He  had  just  been  recalled  from  a  nightmare 
of  pain  and  suffering  and  bidden  to  weave  the  golden 
thread  of  love  into  the  pattern  of  his  life. 

The  night-dark  sky  would  never  be  impenetrable 
again.  The  path  stretched  beautiful  before  him, 
while  still  there  echoed  through  the  room  as  a  song 
lingers  the  words  : 

"Thy  heart  would  lead  thee  into  the  path  of  love. 
Follow  thy  heart." 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  God  of  Love  and  Life. 
A  smile  of  infinite  sweetness  spread  over  the  man's 
countenance. 

In  his  hands  he  held  the  portrait  of  a  woman  with 
the  sunlight  in  her  hair. 

THE  END. 


OUR    NEWEST    ISSUES 


By  Wilbert  C.  Blakeman. 
The  Black  Hand  ...........................  1.50 


By  John  W.  Bennett. 
Roosevelt  and  the  Republic ...i.;  l.5f 


By  Hon.  Joseph  M.  Brown. 

(Governor  of  Georgia.) 
Astyanax — An  Epic  Romance , .  .i.i.i.i  1.50 


By  John  Tracy  Mygatt. 
What  I  Do  Not  Know  of  Farming ,. . . .     .75 


By  Esmee  Walton. 
Aurora  of  Poverty  Hill 1.50 


By  Josephine  Merwin  Cook. 
Bandana  Days ...„...,    .75 


By  Howard  James. 
The  Wraith  of  Knopf  and  Other  Stories.  ...-.^  I.OO 


By  George  Fuller  Golden. 
My  Lady  Vaudeville  and  Her  White  Rats.i.,,  2.0O 


By  J.  A.  Salmon- Maclean. 

Leisure  Moments i.oo 

A  Stricken  City .50 


OUR    NEWEST    ISSUES 


By  Alexandra  Erixon. 
The  Vale  of  Shadows  .......................  1.50 


By  Mrs.  Josephine  M.  Clarke. 
The  King  Squirrel  of  Central  Park  (Juvenile) .,    .60 


By  William  N.  Freeman. 
St.  Mammon  2.59 


By  Mrs.  I.  Lowenberg. 
The  Irresistible   Current 1.50 


By  M.  Y.  T.  H.  Myth. 

Tales  of  Enchantment l.oo 

A  Tale  Confided  by  the  Woods .' 75 


By  Ida  Blanche  Wall. 
Comedy  of  Petty  Conflicts 1.25 


By  Elizabeth  Helene  Freston. 

Poems  (portrait)  beautifully  bound i.oo 

Italia's  Fornarina  (leather) 3.00 


Compiled  by  Darwin  W.  Esmond. 
Poetry  of  Childhood,  by  Paul  Warner  Esmond 
(Memorial  Edition) 1.50 


OUR    NEWEST    ISSUES 


By  James  A.  Ritchey,  Ph.D. 
Psychology  of  the  Will  .....................  $1.50 


By  Charles  Hallock,  M.  A. 
Peerless  Alaska , i.ot 


By  Dwight  Edwards  Marvin. 

Prof.  Slagg  of  London 1.50 

The  Christman  1.50 


By  Caroline  Mays  Brevard. 
Literature  of  the  South 1.50 


By  Susan  Archer  Weiss. 
Home  Life  of  Poe  (ad  ed.) 1.50 


By  Irving  Wilson  Voorhees,  M.D. 
Teachings  of  Thomas  Henry  Huxley  (zd  ed.) .   i.o» 


By  Mrs.  Annie  Riley  Hale. 
Rooseveltian  Fact  and  Fable..  .......  X.OO 


By  Hon.  D.  W.  Higgins. 
The  Mystic  Spring 


By  Edith  Nicholl  Ellison. 
The  Burnt-Offering    tc-WM 


A  •'•"•Finn  ion  mi  || 

000125556     1 


